


J 












' ■ 

’ ' I 



1 












5^ ^ 


r ' - J 


mat 







wm:- 








-* y .4 


'«m;- 


• ^1 





• 

• » 

f>-. >• * -' 

r ¥ 


V 

• 

^ 4 

^ ^ w 

K' 

P' 

r. 

»•- - • •-•■• •' 
: rjt 

• . . - 






. < 





> « ■> 


1 . 




\ t. 


>-• V- . 


‘ •• J '• ' > vtf- 

.^ ^ ‘4-1 • » ' . , 



-I 


4 -,•■■- 


L< ' 


. j 


* # 


.t{ . 



>4 ■ 


^ . 


/' V . 


• ■» 



, <■ 


k . 


>v- 


-A 




i « 


• . A- 


• V 


\'' 


t. 






> 

• a 



■ . V 


* . 


- ^ 


^ * 



>- . 


1 :}^:: 


7 • 


k'-> 'm ■' " 



'4 


*■ •:>• '“oi. 4 i » 


« • 


•^ •*■ J , ■*•*■'*'*•. 


f :-' ; ‘ 

W '*:'•■ 





V 


V ^ 


» ' « V 




I *. 


O . • ' 

>■*.*,► - t 

■-V^» ' ‘ a»T * I 


^w' 


■i 


. * * * 
-31 ^ 


.s(*; 


•*.' *A 



k 9 


. y 


_ V 


/ - «. 


•s 



•A 


- . 4 



- •* •' -'. ./ , . 

k. •; /y^ 

:y V iti ; , '* » ■ 

r -T .y * 4_A . - a . 

li; ,. • 













' j-nt'. c K’ 1 

:y' • ‘ 



: V 

- - A > ^ * 


* ■ _ _ . • 




I 


. . . - v ''-r 

* *• V ' . , • p 

L't'- ' .: i-*?; f-ti'': 



4 ' 


>i 


« 

A 


-■ 


. l' 


’ >* 


I 



-. >** • 


* !’V^ . -• 


V, 


< • 




' > 


• f 


V 

w 


>.1' 




. .V ♦ — 

• *VCK* > ■ ' 




■* ^ 


i;^. ’’ 

. pi:® ■ , ■ 

« 




i « 

^ si'* 


•** . ^ 

•«i '■ 

“** •»'*' 



• «# 


TP. 


r .:- -j • ^ ^ 




r 


«■ •’ 




J* 




’ \ 

w 

^ ■> 



..i-v 


I ■ 



p » 


f • 






n 

^ 


• j '■■’ 4 - l’ 

<f »•> .< • * 


»• P > 







p Vi .-; ^ 


V 


» J 


i • 


1 



4. 


‘•P 


V • 


’ ' * w -■ V - ^ 
X <' ■ 


» *• 


» 

N 


' * ^ i 


r 


. « 


» * • 

/* *r‘- ■ •• ■■J' -* - * 


% 

% 


•m ..fe. 



%•* * 


<r. 


i 44 ?: 


# ’ 

t 


. • 


's ■ *, 




.* 


•P's 


>. 

^ • 

• t 


t'P 

i*:' 


; •• 



5:* 





j 


^ ' ' 




X(1 




I V 'i 



r .*-.w 


-•*. 


> r-U’* 


» > 


V • 




V f 


r 



• »•’ 


-.» 


r 

S* 

.•V. 


V "• 
1 


, w 

> ■ 




. 


• • 


I t 


I- 


•:i' 


A- 

« 


. t 




a 


•# . 






4 0 


'-.O! • , 

• • 


0 


4 , 




. . •?; . 


? 


•» 


;‘ 1. •»/> 


k'-'.w; 

■ • ■ - • 

*. 1 t’ :J? •. 


V . .' 

- \ 


i< 


- I*'' > -•'p 

\ ♦ • .'«,<'. .‘W • . 

V' , P ' » •'* 


• I 


V- 


t «. 

I 


■rM 

^4 


k.' 

k 




*. > 


.1 


A ^ 
> 





it 


# *v 


■♦ / - . .A 

:i'f '■:'■ ■> 


?!? 


» ^ 


• <s 






« 


1 




_ 



/ 


>|P^ 


k . 
f"' 



ALONG THE ANATAW 


THE RECORD OF A CAMPAIGN 


'TTM 



MARY R. BALDWIN 

If 



^C1 1 ! ■ ^./ 

. A* 6*5r » K 

. . .pn ,'»4 , 


NE^f^ YORK : HUNT EA TON 
CINCINNA Tl: CRANSTON Sf STOWE 




Copyright, 1891, by 
HUNT & EATON, 


New York. 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER I. PAGE 

Old Hickory in Danger 5 

CHAPTER 11. 

The Doone Place and Paley’s 16 

CHAPTER III. 

Jessie Ward ' 26 

CHAPTER IV. 

The Deacon’s Wife Speaks Out 42 

CHAPTER V. 

Mrs. Doone Makes a Call 52 

, CHAPTER VI. 

The Orphan Finds a Home 65 

CHAPTER YII. 

Leaders for the War 17 

CHAPTER Vlir. 

Deacon Marvin Spaeks in Meeting 94 

CHAPTER IX. 

Lukewarm Adherents 102 

CHAPTER X. 

One of the Meetings 115 


4 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XI. PAGE 

On the Eve op a Revolution 124 

CHAPTER XII. 

Safe from Doonk 138 

CHAPTER XIII. 

A Recruit 141 

CHAPTER Xiy. 

The Trial and After 157 

CHAPTER XY. 

Masson Has a School 176 

CHAPTER XYI. 

Sir Arthur, Knight 181 

CHAPTER XYII. 

Jessie’s Resolve 194 

. CHAPTER XYIII. 

Knight and Lady 202 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Off to College 208 

CHAPTER XX. 

Philip’s Perplexity 219 

CHAPTER XXL 

A Ray op Hope 231 

CHAPTER XXII. 

MiSUNDEPlSTANDINGS 244 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


The Right Wins 


257 


ALONG THE ANATAW 


CHAPTEE I. 

OLD HICKORY IN DANGER. 

It was the first of November ; the evening liad 
set in with a strange chill in the air, and something 
in the sound of the wind seemed to herald the ap- 
proach of winter in its most forbidding manner. 

“ A storm is coming, I think,’’ said a mother, as she 
gathered her children in the most comfortable room of 
an old house where generations of families for many, 
many winters had listened to the voices, of the storm. 

“ It will shake the hickory-nuts from the top of 
the big tree over in the south lot,” cried six-year-old 
Johnny, gleefully. 

“ There’ll be snow for Thanksgiving,” said his sis- 
ter Annie, a bright-faced, sweet-voiced girl. “ Philip,” 
she continued, “ can you fix the sled again ? ” 

The brother whom she addressed was the eldest of 
the children ; he had laid aside his book and did not 
seem to heed his sister’s cpiestion, for he was lost in 
thought. 


6 


AL ONG THE AKA TA W. 


She came close to liim and, toucliing his arm, again 
asked her question. Philip turned his face toward 
her, and the expression of sadness upon it gave way 
to one of boyish interest as he answered : “ The sled, 
did you say, Annie ? I was thinking of ‘ Old Hickory ; ’ ” 
and he glanced toward his mother and met her gaze. 

‘‘ Of what were you thinking ? ” asked she. 

‘‘ I was thinking, mother, whether ‘ Old Hickory ’ 
would have to be brought down if wood should give 
out in the south lot. If the winter sets in early it 
will take a great deal to carry us through.’’ 

I have been thinking myself about the wood in 
the south lot,” answered Mrs. Mayne ; yet we must 
try to manage without ‘ Old Hickory,’ for you know 
the tree is our favorite and was your grandfather’s 
pride among the trees,” she added, softly. He took 
me to look for nuts under it when I was only a child not 
larger than Johnny, and it has been a generous giver 
ever since. AVe Avill not take its life, my boy, until 
we must do so to save our own.” 

Just then the wind gave one of its loudest shrieks, 
and it was echoed around the house like the answer 
to a call to general riot. 

I wish we could fix up the old house, mother,” 
began Philip. “ I heard over in Masson that when 
my grandfather was a young man and came to live 
here it looked very grand, and that there were grand 


OLD HICKORY IN DANGER. 


7 


doings liere, too, and that there were parties, and the 
men were handsome and fine, and the ladies were 
beautiful. I’ve thought it all over, and wondered 
how I could begin tlie improvement, so that bj and 
by, when I am able to go into business for myself, I 
could finish them and try and bring back the old 
look of grandfather’s time to the place. It shall not 
go to ruin, mother. People shall not have it to say 
that the Paley place is fast going to ruin, when once 
it w^as the pride of these parts.” 

Mrs. Mayne, as she listened to her son’s words, was 
full of conflicting emotions, and her cheeks paled as 
memories of the old happy home days rushed upon 
her. She whispered hoarsely as she laid her hand 
upon the arm of her boy : “ Do not set your heart upon 
it, my boy, for there may be worse troubles than the 
decay of the old house in store for us. "We have learned 
through many disappointments not to expect a great 
deal ; haven’t we, dear ? ” 

But, mother,” he answered, “ if we never can be 
allowed to expect any thing different from what we 
have now I don’t see any use in living. I really 
don’t, mother ! ” And the despair which his voice 
held w’as pitiful in the extreme. 

Then there was the sound of footsteps, and sud- 
denly upon the faces of the group there was an ex- 
pression of expectancy that held only fear. 


8 


ALONG THE ANA TAW. 


Mrs. Majne’s voice trembled as she bade her son 
take the light and guide in the stumbling feet that 
so many, many times before had crossed the home 
threshold only to occasion fear and sorrow among 
those who waited. 

Philip took the light and started, his whole nature 
roused to revolt at all that he had learned to expect 
from the coming step. He soon returned, followed 
by his reeling father. 

Johnny clasped his mother’s hand tightly ; Annie 
went to a corner of the lounge, and Philip stood 
motionless, still holding the light, his face pale, his 
lips firmly set, his left hand doubled as if he would 
give a blow to an enemy. 

The coming step had been the experience of years, 
yet each time it seemed to bring with it new sor- 
row and foreboding. 

‘‘ Where’s supper ? ” the new-comer asked, in a thick 
voice, as he dropped into a seat. 

I have it all warm and nice waiting for you, 
Thomas,” the wife answ^ered, and rose as she spoke, 
to bring the food for the man Avho, though coming in 
a beastly state, was still her husband, the husband of 
her youth, of whom she had dreamed great deeds 
and care and tenderness tow^ard his own. 

Some leavin’s, Pll warrant ! I’m of no ’count 
lately ; these brats that you teach to ’spise their father 


OLD UICKORY IN DANGER. 


9 


have all the good things, nowadays,” he muttered, as 
he stumbled into a chair by the table. 

This man, when sober, was not a brute, neither a 
dolt ; but alcohol had the power of so transforming 
him that the true Thomas Mayne could not have 
been easily recognized when he was under its influ- 
ence. The sober hours were year by year becoming 
fewer, and consequently the man was gradually but 
very surely losing his manhood and yielding to what 
alcohol suggested to him. 

The wife did not reply to his insulting remark, and, 
leaving him to. take his food as the lowest animal 
might, she took her place among her children ; and 
the wind moaned, and the thousand voices of the 
coming storm, whispering to worn, fearful souls of 
evil and ruin, gave to the poor woman’s dulled ear 
no sound of promise, to her dimmed eyes no blessed, 
grateful vision of far-off rainbow hues. 

It was late when the sorrowful members of the 
household had retired to their beds ; the storm had 
gathered all its forces and was wildly displaying its 
power as sleep tried to settle upon the humble home. 

IS'ature took up her task of trying to restore the 
abused machinery of the life-forces of the man who 
lay in his drunken stupor ; it was her persistent, patient 
way, this effort of restoration ; and though the task to 
human eyes might seem a hopeless one, yet she still 


10 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


followed tlie bidding of the law of life against the 
forces that were the result of following the law of 
death. 

Philip lay thinking late that night in the darkness 
of all the dreadful experiences that had been theirs 
so long. He clasped his hands as lie whispered, 
When I am a little older I will make great changes 
here. Mother shall live like a lady again. Dear little 
Johnny will always be the pet, and Annie — my hand- 
some sister Annie, born to be a queen — she shall be 
one among the beautiful ladies.” Then a something 
pressed itself upon his consciousness that made him 
breathe hard, and, rising to a sitting posture, he peered 
into the darkness as if he would see the evil spirits 
that were suggesting the awful facts. Then he 
groaned, ‘‘ If I cannot stop that Doone from selling 
father the liquor that is spoiling our lives I will know 
why ! ” 

Then the dreadful words seemed to be sounded in 
his ears, You cannot do it. Nobody in Masson can 
put a stop to the liquor-selling ! ” 

But the boy’s spirit cried in its prison-house, “ It 
must be done ! ” 

Sleep came at last to relieve those who suffered in 
the old house by the ferry while the storm roared on. 

When the sun on the following morning rose above 
the roofs of the happy as of the sorrowful there was 


OLD HICKORY IN DANGER. 11 

nothing in its smile to tell of the tempest’s wrath, 
nothing but hope and light in its face, nothing bat 
a promise of final triumph ; but not all who saw the 
sun that morning could read its message. 

The mother rose to face again the duties which the 
day might present, and those alone who have known 
the experience of a drunkard’s wife can understand 
the number and variety of such duties. Body and 
soul must be taxed to the utmost to meet them. A 
cheerful manner must be worn for the sake of the 
children who watched her face to find in it comfort 
and hope for their poor shadowed lives ; new meth- 
ods of economy must be discovered to make a very 
little go a long "way, and to give an attraction to the 
fare made up of such coarse material as her slender 
means would supply. All this because the rum power 
held sway in Masson. 

What but the spirit of martyrdom could be sufficient 
for all this ? 

Philip, as he went with his sister Annie to school 
that morning, was still thinking over his plan for the 
restoration of the old home. Like all who have not 
been in the world’s battles, he did not calculate for 
rebuffs, but saw a conqueror’s way before him, when 
he should be free to fight for success. The forebod- 
ing and the doubt lay in the direction of the rescue 
of his father from his awful slavery to drink. 


12 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


What will success or the home he if my father is 
a slave to rum ? How shall I work to save him from 
ruin, body and soul ? ” 

These were the questions that he could not answer, 
and these thoughts made him, through their evolu- 
tions, old before his time. 

Annie had thought much of her brother’s words of 
the night before, and especially of the grand parties 
and beautiful ladies, for in the mind of the child 
beauty held a place for worship. She thought her 
brother unusually silent; she had lifted her eyes to 
scan his face several times, and could find no en- 
couragement to speak of what she had upon her 
mind. At last she ventured to ask : 

“ Did you mean, brother, that you were going to 
make a grand house of our old place again ? ” 

‘^Yes, I did mean it!” answered Philip, so sharply 
that his sister started at the sound of his voice. She 
was silent a minute, however, and then ventured an- 
other question : 

‘‘ And would you make great parties for fine gen- 
tlemen and beautiful ladies, as fine and beautiful as 
those of the old days ? ” 

“ Don’t you ask me another word, Annie, about it 
until I can get a start. Not another "vvord, mind 
you ; I can’t bear it 1 But I’ll do it — if — if — ” and 
he did not finish his sentence. 


OLD HICKORY IN DANGER. 


13 


Tlie girl trembled in earnest now, for slie had never 
seen her brother in just such a fierce mood before. 
Tlie two did not speak again until they had entered 
the street upon which the school-house stood, and 
then Philip caught his sisters hand and said : 

‘‘ I did not mean to be cross, Annie ; Pm going 
to make a lady of yon. I’ll keep my promise, you 
need not fear, bnt — but I don’t know just how I’m 
to begin, nor how long it will take ; so don’t ask me 
about it. I’m going to do it ; let that be enough 
for you to know.” 

It was enough for at least that day, and the school- 
room for the pretty girl, with the brightest hair and 
the bluest eyes and the most delicate complexion of 
all who gathered there, became a place for dreaming 
of a rosy future. The teacher as he took his classes 
through the different exercises little thought that 
there were invisible paths that led away from the 
sciences up a shining way, and that the one pair of 
lovely blue eyes had become dreamy through the 
mental vision of grandeur and beauty. 

What were the rules and the tasks to the little 
dreamer that day ? And what were the plain girls 
around her? She was going to be a lady, and most 
surely a beautiful one ! Philip had said so, he would 
keep his word. 

About noon of this same day Thomas Mayne came 


14 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


home from a stroll in the south wood lot, and said to 
his wife, “Maiy, that old hickory-tree would work up 
into a lot of fuel, and we — might — well, IVe had a 
chance to sell it for a great deal more than it is worth; 
for quite a little sum, in fact.” 

Like a flash the picture of the past came before the 
wife. She saw again the old days when she knew 
nothing of care or of sori*ow ; she brought back the 
hour when as a child she had played under the hick- 
ory-tree, and that other hour when, giving herself to 
the man she loved and trusted, her father had blessed 
her, and said : As a part of your marriage portion I 
have given you, my daugliter, the old south lot, with 
the hickory-tree. I have always called it yours, my 
child ; do not let it pass from your possession except 
in case of actual want. Let Nature take care of the 
death of the old tree, as she has of its life. I do not 
fear your coming to want while your husband has a 
strong arm and a strong will ! ” 

She remembered with a pang, as she contrasted re- 
sults, her husband’s answer : “ She shall never come to 
want. I promise you, sir, your daughter shall never 
want while I have a hand and a heart as strons: as 
to-day.” 

Alas ! the years had weakened the will, and thus the 
hand had become powerless. 

Did I say the years ? Time, unaided by sin, does 


OLD HICKORY IN DANGER. 


15 


not thus weaken a will. The ruin influence alone 
was responsible for the weakness of the man. 

“ What do you say, Mary ? ” he asked, at length, 
after waiting for her to speak. The wife came away 
from her retrospection ; tlie color came and went 
from her face. She answered with restrained feeling : 

“ It would seem a very small matter for disagree- 
ment, Thomas, hut I shall not consent to take the life 
of the old tree except to save higher life ! ” 

She did not refer her husband to that hour that 
seemed so sweet and sacred then, which now had be- 
come to her thought an almost fatal one through its 
tragical consequences — that hour when on her mar- 
riage day her father’s wish had given her promise for 
the life of the tree the nature of a vow. 

Thomas Mayne did not urge the matter more on 
this day, neither did he abuse his wife; thus far 
cruelty toward her had been reserved for the times 
when he was in liquor; but the refusal made him out 
of temper. 

This was not the first trial of the kind she had been 
called to endure in trying to hold her possessions. 
Sometimes she had fought to retain the homestead 
against her husband’s persuasions to part with it ; 
again, it was an old heir-loom — china, or silver, or 
books that she persisted in keeping ; but thus far she 
had saved most of her father’s gifts. 


16 


ALONG TUE ANATAW. 


CHAPTER IL 

THE DOONE PLACE AND PALEY’S. 

Thomas Mayne paid liis visit to Masson Center 
that afternoon, and, as usual, his objective point was 
tlie store kept by Martin Doone, which was grocery 
store, news depot, and grog-shop in one. 

Martin Doone’s liomo was cpiite a pretentious house, 
and but for this certain air of show about it would 
have been called one of the best in the town. It was 
quite modern in style, and its furnishings were rich 
and in the latest fashion, imported from the metrop- 
olis one hundred miles away. Indeed, the velvet 
upholster}^ made Masson draw its breath in astonish- 
ment, for at the time of which I write the old town 
felt quite satisfied with its hair-cloth and mahogany, 
and in its most extravagant dreams had never aspired 
to silk and velvet. One old gentleman remarked : 

I like to see my wife with a velvet bonnet on, 
but I never expect to see the day when she will have 
velvet cushions on her cheers^ never ! And if my 
wife don’t deserve velvet cushions nobody does.” 

But as material comfort and prosperity are not al- 
w^ays given to the worthy, and often go hand in hand 


THE D 0 ONE EL A CE AND PALE TS. 17 

with wrong-doing, Martin Doone seemed to flonrisli 
like a green bay-tree,” and very many, even among 
those whose fixed habits of correct judgment should 
have preserved them from the little folly to which 
the wise man is sometimes led, shook their heads as 
they contemplated their own loss or failure to suc- 
ceed, and said : 

1 can’t understand how that Doone is allowed 
to have all the good things of this life, when he is 
robbing homes of comfort and ruining the peace 
of so many. I don’t see why the Lord allows it 
all ! ” 

This was the human view of it, or rather what dis- 
torted vision presented ; for it is not necessary for us 
to get to the other side before we can discover that 
the Lord does not intend that such a high-handed rob- 
ber as a rum-seller shall prosper long in his practices. 
He surely intends that his own people, the defenders 
and propagators of a religion that would give peace 
on earth, good-will to men,” shall see to it that the 
persistent destroyer of peace shall not be allowed to 
go on his course unmolested. 

Masson as a community did not recognize such a 
fact so far that it led to effective effort to rid the town 
of the curse that was fast undermining its home hap- 
piness. Would it require a shock that should shake 

its social traditions and prejudices to the center to 

2 


18 


ALONG THE ANA TA W. 


rouse it to a just sense of its position toward the op- 
pressor and tlie oppressed. 

Wlien Thomas Mayne entered Doone’s store that 
day there was a group around the stove consisting of 
men like himself, who had no regular business, but 
who took odd jobs when they were presented. 

The sTibject of conversation among these men be- 
fore he entered was Thomas Mayne and his family. 
It had been suggested by the offer, the night before, 
by Martin Doone for tlio hickory-tree. 

Thomas Mayne had not then found courage to tell 
the man tliat he could not bargain it away without 
the consent of his wife, and had evaded the truth by 
promising to think about it. 

There were a few people in Masson who had 
knowledii^e of the details of the inarrias^e settlement 
of ‘‘ Squire Paley ” upon his daughter, and what 
Masson’s few knew wholly its many knew in part, 
and rumor gave it to the set who frequented Doone’s. 

This set, over the universal solvent, liquor, im- 
parted many secrets, discussed according to their 
moral status, and settled many questions of right and 
wrong. 

When Thomas Mayne entered there w’ere winks 
and nudges and leers among them, and a general air 
of expectancy of something amusing. The new-comer 
advanced and took a seat by the fire. There was a 


THE D 0 ONE PL A CE AND PALEY'S. 19 

silence of a few minutes, and then Joe Burns, the 
boldest of the crowd, said to him : 

“ I s’ pose you’ve made up your mind to sell the 
hickory-tree, Tom ? ” 

There was a laugh all round at this, and Thomas, 
looking in an embarrassed way from one to the other, 
did not reply. 

“ What did you make up your mind to do about it, 
anyway?” asked Joe Burns, again. 

‘‘ Well, I’ve made up my mind not to sell at pres- 
ent,” answered Thomas, with all the dignity of a 
property-owner. “I aint obliged to sell; so what’s 
the use. Then my wife and children set a good deal 
of store by that tree.” 

There were sly winks and nods at this among the 
men, but the speaker did not seem to notice them, 
and went on : 

“I’ve got a wife and children that can’t be beat. 
I ought to be proud of them, and why shouldn’t I try 
to please them ? ” 

In Thomas Mayne the better nature was trying to 
assert itself, for he had not taken his drink. Just 
then a sneering laugh was heard, then another, and 
another, which would not give an exalted idea of the 
courtesy of the fraternity toward one of its members. 

The poor man could not lyide from himself the 
knowledge of the nature of the laugh. He knew too 


20 


ALONG THE AN AT AW. 


well why his talk of pride in his family seemed ridic- 
ulous to those who listened. 

“ Give ns a drink, Doone ! ” called out a gruff 
voice. “ I’ll treat on that speech of Tom’s ; he was 
certainly born for an orator ! ” 

The liquor was brought and tasted by all again and 
again ; and the coarse jokes became coarser, and by 
the time the twilight came on and the company began 
to disperse few of them could walk straight. 

As they went to their several homes they were 
met by kind people, by pure people, by energetic 
people, by many who professed to be followers of the 
One who laid down his life to save lives from sin’s 
degradation ; yet not one of them all felt it to be his 
particular duty to lead the war against the crying 
evil. Masson surely was blind toward its best inter- 
ests. But Masson was not in this respect peculiar, 
for I am "writing of a time when a “ fanatic ” upon 
the subject of temperance was one, of all others, un- 
popular. 

Men might band themselves against other wrongs, 
might speak freely and decidedly against oppression ; 
but who could favor a revolution upon the question 
wdiich was mooted by the mighty of Church and 
State ? 

Martin Doone, who stood at the head of the rum 
traffic in the town, was by no means a courageous 


THE DO ONE PLACE AND PALEY^S. 


21 


man ; a single brave movement against liis power 
would have weakened bis influence. Yet a move- 
ment of such a kind must have no element of weak- 
ness about it. The man had heard rumors of battle 
only to have his fears quieted by inaction on the part 
of temperance people, and liad settled down to enjoy 
as best he might his ill-gotten possessions. If he 
ever had a doubt with regard to the lawfulness of Ids 
course he fortifled himself against conviction by as- 
suring his conscience that he had inherited the busi- 
ness from his father, who was in his day as good a 
church member as there was in Masson. 

It was very true that his own father had sold a glass 
now and then to a select few. But this father prided 
himself upon being able to discriminate between 
those who had sufficient control over their appetites 
to stop when they had enough and those who would 
sink into drunkenness. But if his son Martin pos- 
sessed this delicate gift of discernment the results of 
his methods of liquor-selling did not prove such to 
be the fact. 

Masson proper was bounded on the west by a stream 
of water which at the earliest settlement of the town 
was named the Anataw Biver. Beyond this river 
nature seemed to have her way, for art had done lit- 
tle to reclaim the region from its original state. 
Along the river’s bank, extending back for perhaps a 


22 


ALONG THE ANATAW, 


mile, there were at intervals residences many of 
which at the time of their building were sumptuous 
and attractive. But when a house has sheltered 
three generations of a family if it does not lose its 
individuality it surely does much of its beauty. And 
if the latest owner happens to be like Thomas Mayne, 
a dilapidated character, the old house seems to say 
as plainly as words could, There is not much use in 
trying to hold out.” From each loose board and de- 
caying shingle, from its unkempt brow to its moss- 
covered base, it seems to proclaim this decision to 
give up. It is not pleasant to read, “I have given 
up,” upon the features of a man or of a house when 
either might have held out longer if they had been 
justly treated by themselves or by others. The old 
Baley house was, with all its signs of early gentility, 
thus proclaiming its decay. Large and 'well-propor- 
tioned, with rooms arranged with a view to hospital- 
ity, its graceful carvings and rich moldings proved 
that the original owner possessed means and taste be- 
yond the ordinary. But if the old house bore signs 
of its first grandeur, signs that even a careless observer 
might discover, it had a history connected with it 
that added to its consequence in the opinion of Mas- 
son. 

“ The Paley house,” to use the expression common 
in the town, “ had seen liigh days.” The old inhab- 


THE BOONE PLACE AND PALEY'S. 23 

itants could tell long stories of wliat tliey liad heard 
of ‘‘’Great-grandfather Palev’s” time, and could 
speak with greater satisfaction of what they had seen 
in his son’s da}'’. To some of those stories Philip had 
listened, and ho had been fired by them to form a 
hojdsh ambition to bring again something in kind to 
the old home of the experience of comfort and even 
of prosperity of the old days. 

Decay and neglect might do their work in defacing 
the house and its immediate surroundings, but beyond, 
where art had not tried her powers, nature was beau- 
tiful and attractive and grand in her different moods, 
and it was not in the ability of time to destroy her 
beauty. From the earliest spring day on until autumn’s 
last hour, and even after winter had laid its icy hand 
upon her, she charmed the boy Philip, and he early 
learned to go to her as a lover, and so saw and heard 
much that those who viewed her charms indifferently 
were denied. 

The Anataw, placid and bright as it usually ap- 
23eared, did not always keep an even, calm course 
toward the sea, but it had its seasons of disquiet, and 
even of turbulence. Sometimes its waters rose so 
high and rushed with such force against the bridge at 
the ferry that it threatened to carry it away. At such 
times the Mayne children watched with eagerness the 
general riot and the quantities of drift-wood brought 


24 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


down by tlie strong current — for they anticipated the 
excitement of catching it after the first rush was over, 
and then it would lielp toward the home fires. 

Whatever might have been tlie mood of child or 
of man in tliis lonely spot around the ferry, there 
might be found, taking the year through, something 
to answer to all in nature. Philip was a happy boy 
alone with nature in her peaceful moods, but O 
how his adventurous, daring disposition reveled with 
her in her passionate moods ! The high tides, with 
the rush and roar, set every fiber of his nature quiv- 
ering with sympathy. He seemed to be formed for 
daring deeds and elected to stand in the unquiet 
places of life. 

His mother, when he was quite a small child, dis- 
covered in him elements of passion and daring, and 
her mother’s love w’as not without its forebodings for 
her child’s future. While she rejoiced to know that 
there was in him a promise of firmness of character, 
she knew that he was the son of a man who, although 
he was her own husband, was weak in will. 

In her fearful hours she argued, “ Will not this very 
strength and passion act as a mighty force to hurry 
him to destruction if he once enters the drunkard’s 
path ? ” 

A mother’s heart may thrill at tlie thought, “ I have 
gotten a man-child from the Lord ; ” but O, if that 


THE DO ONE PLACE AND PALET'S. 


25 


mother is the wife of a drunkard, how is she torn hy 
the possibilities that present themselves 'with regard 
to its future temptations ! 

The child Annie w\as of different make-up. She 
had much of the butterfly nature ; life could never 
show its positive side to her, duty could never face 
her with ‘‘ You must ! ” in its sacrificial demands. She 
could dance in the sunshine, but never remain in the 
shade. The martyr element w^as entirely wanting in 
her. 

Little Jolinny, the pet and darling of the house, 
though six years old, was still the baby. The mother 
would have chided the years for taking aw^ay the baby 
helplessness. Each infantile peculiarity w^as cherished 
as were the first articles of his wardrobe, which were 
laid in their perfumed wrapping in a secret drawer, 
along with her father’s and mother’s gifts. Strangely 
enough, she never made plans for Johnny’s future. 
She did not reason wdth regard to it ; she was only 
conscious of feeling that it would be well with the 
‘^dear baby” always. 

She did not allow herself to look back often now, 
although every-where she turned there was something 
to remind her of the old happy life of her father’s 
day and of her early hopes. People must live on 
who have parted with the things which seemed once 
to hold the essence of true living — must stand as 


26 


ALONG THE AN AT AW. 


trees stand in tlieir place after the lightning has 
scathed them, and nothing remains of their former 
pride and glory. Henceforth her life must be more 
and more merged in that of her children ; and this 
self-surrendered, sacrificial life is, after all, sufficient 
for a true mother’s ambition, provided the one blessed 
purpose remains to her — that of inspiring these chil- 
dren with her own hopes and ambitions. 


JESSIE WARD. 


27 


CIIAPTEE III. 

JESSIE WARD. 

The winter came and went, as other seasons liad, 
with its peculiar experiences of care and disappoint- 
ment and disgrace for the family of Thomas Mayne — 
the winter was the most trying season of the year at 
the ferry home. Then one morning the first bird sang 
near the kitchen door, where Mrs. Mayne rested for a 
moment to look out upon the familiar landscape and 
to wonder what new trial would come with the bright 
days that would make them seem a mockery. 

This particular spring bird that broke the quiet by 
a sudden burst of song had, perhaps, not improved 
upon its last year’s song, but somehow it stirred the 
soul of the listener as bird-song never had before. 
She heard not alone gladness ; there seemed to be a 
theme throughout the song, and the joy was only one 
of the parts of the medley ; the theme suggested a 
depth of experience. As she sat almost motionless 
she thought, ‘‘ The theme is there ; it gives tlie song its 
character ; but the glad, cheery strains — what would 
the song be without them ? ” So many of us find, or 
seek to, our own little peculiar experiences told in the 


28 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


song of bird, in the voice of the waters, in the sound 
of tlie wind ; and wide-awake, practical, successful 
people may try to clear our senses for us and may 
laugh us to scorn ; yet we cling to our fancies, which, 
after all, may be something more worthy of respect 
than the world imagines. 

For her children’s sake Mrs. Mayne made a new 
vow that morning to try to keep herself in a cheer- 
ful frame of mind. Johnny clapped his hands with 
delight as his mother called him to listen to the song of 
the bird that was so sweetly opening the season of song. 

‘‘ I’m so glad ! so glad ! ” he cried. “ I wish all 
the year was spring. I don’t like the winter ; I won- 
der why we must have a cold, dark winter when we 
are so happy in the spring.” 

But the spring air and birds were only for a day 
before the skies darkened and the wind moaned, and 
storm messengers came one by one, and, looking out 
toward the Anataw, Mrs Mayne said : 

“A hard storm is coming, I think, and if there should 
be an overflow of the river I fear for the bridge.” 

“ If the bridge should go would they use the ferry- 
boats, as they did so long ago ? ” asked Johnny, as^ 
child-like, he seized the pleasantest idea that presented 
itself with regard to the overflow. 

‘AVould it take Samson’s house?” asked his sister 
Annie. 


JESSIE WARD. 


29 


‘‘Why, I never tlioiiglit of that,’’ said Philip. 
“You know, mother,” lie continued, “that Mrs. 
AYard’s cabin barely escaped being carried away at 
the last flood.” 

“That Samson AVard is a bigger fool than I 
thought,” said Thomas Mayne, in a tone of disgust. 
“ He knows that the Anataw is liable to rise any 
spring, and then he came very near drowning last 
year.” 

Samson Ward, of whom they spoke, was one of the 
set who frequented Doone’s store and had wrecked 
his best prospects through drink. He had an invalid 
wife and one child, Jessie, a daughter of tliirteen. 
Samson AYard had in his veins as good blood as Mas- 
son could boast, and in his early manhood’s days gave 
promise of doing honor to a family that had held it- 
self among the flrst in the history of the town. He 
married a lovely and intelligent girl, and on their 
wedding-day all who beheld them said that they were 
a noble pair, destined to lead a happy life. How the 
arch-flend, alcohol, must have laughed at the idea ! 
And O how the tide of intemperance setting against 
the married love at last swept all that was of value 
away from the home-life ! 

The once fair and beautiful wife was a confirmed 
invalid, and Jessie, the young daughter, became her 
constant companion and comforter in her sorrows. 


so 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


She had attended school witli Philip and Annie until 
the last winter, when her mother, growing more help- 
less, needed her constantly with her. 

Few could look at the sweet, thoughtful face of 
Jessie Ward without being impressed by its expres- 
sion. It was one of those faces tliat, not depending 
upon regularity of features to commend it to the no- 
tice of beholders, yet held an inexplicable charm. 
There arc a favored few who are able to under- 
stand the secret of this particular charm of those who, 
like Tennyson’s ‘‘ Margaret,” seem to stand between 
the “ rainbow and the sun ; ” and these are able to 
exalt the peculiar beauty to its place beyond the 
charm of mere facial beauty. 

To Philip, with his nature susceptible to such im- 
pressions, and his knowledge that her young life was 
cursed like his own through the rmn tyranny, she 
was some one to be looked upon and thought of in 
quite a different light from what other girls were re- 
garded. Thoughts of the overflow and of possible 
danger to the Ward cabin, which stood on low 
ground, on the very brink of the river, occupied him 
as he set out upon an errand to a farmer two miles 
up the river. 

I fear you will be overtaken by the storm ; and 
see the Anataw, how it has risen ! ” said his mother, 
with much of apprehension in her tone. 


JESSIE WABE. 


31 


“ But I promised Mr. W aite, mother, and it may 
be he lias something to say to me that will be pleasant 
to hear. I shall get work from him, I am sure, for 
the summer, and who knows that he will not give me 
better prices than he did last summer?’^ 

“ Dear boy ! ” wliispered his fond mother, as she 
looked at his lighted face as he planned to make life 
easier for her by beginning to take burdens upon 
himself. 

As he walked briskly forward that morning he 
dreamed of a successful career, and, now and then 
stopping to look back at the old house, he imagined it 
again rising to its old place as an aristocratic dwelling, 
and thought of his sister Annie as a queenly lady, 
a beauty among beauties. Then suddenly a thought 
made him turn his eyes toward a small object in 
the distance. It seemed as if Samson Ward’s house 
was even then quite surrounded by water. lie stood 
still for a moment and gazed at the far-away cabin 
that seemed so dangerously situated. “ Surely they 
will see the danger and make their escape in time,” 
he thought. With this quieting conclusion he hur- 
ried on. 

Mr. Waite was at the entrance to his home yard as 
Philip reached it. He was in a very cheery mood. 

“ So you’ve come with the first bird, and you’re 
briimino: a storm Avith you. First birds don’t mean 


32 


ALONG THE AN ATAW. 


sunshine and singing always ; we all find that out 
sooner or later, in one way or another,” he said, and 
added, “It is the way of the young folks to make 
something out of nothing. ITow, there’s my Edith ; 
do you hear her playing and singing of spring? But 
it is rather pleasant, after all,” he added softly, “ for 
young folks to snatch as tliey do at joy. But you’ve 
come to talk business, I suppose, and I am as anxious 
as you are, I think, to begin. 

“I went down to 'New York last week, and I tell 
you it set a few ideas stirring in this old dull brain, 
.and — well — I’ve made np my mind to be something 
or nothing in the future. I went into one of the 
largest seed-houses there, and it made me quite mis- 
erable in many respects, my boy! I’ll tell you 
about it ! 

“ First I must do a little explaining. When I was 
a boy my people taught me to persevere. I never 
can be grateful enough for that, to be sure ; without 
perseverance nothing can be done for this world’s in- 
terests or for the next; but I’ve thought lately if my 
father had said, ‘ Persevere until you get to the very 
top round of the ladder, my boy ! ’ — if ho had charged 
me to do that I should have accomplished more than 
I have. I kind of understood perseverance to mean 
sticking to an even way rather than to an upward 
one. True perseverance, I take it, means rising as 


JESSIE WARD. 


33 


well as keeping at a thing, and it must mean feeling 
out in every direction toward the light also. I ought 
to have learned that in my life among growing things 
right here on my own farm ; if I hadn’t been as blind 
as a bat I should have learned it, I am sure. But I’ve 
gone on in one direction with some of my faculties 
unused. I have had times of being miserable over 
it, although I could not have told what was really 
the trouble, and I rather think I made myself cross 
and disagreeable over it to my wife and child, all 
because I was not able to use all my faculties as I 
should. 

‘‘Well, as I was saying, when I was down in New 
York I went all through one of the large seed-houses, 
and the gentleman who took me through it told me 
his experience, and his history stirred my whole en- 
ergy. I felt then that I had been only half alive to 
my business, and that lesson that he taught me uncon- 
sciously was, ‘ Be all you can in whatever you under- 
take.’ It seemed to teach me for the first time that 
I had ever been really taught the truth that a man 
may be greater for being conscientious and faithful 
to the smallest plant and flower life, and that being 
so means that he studies all the little habits and pos- 
sibilities relating to it.” 

He paused and looked as far as his eye could reach 

over his broad acres, and a look of pride and of ten- 
3 


84 


ALONG THE AN AT AW. 


derness grew upon his lionest face as he surveyed the 
farm upon which he had so long lived. He turned at 
last and added : 

“ This farm isn’t a very shabby one, but it liasn’t had 
justice done it. Ho man with narrow views of his call- 
ing can do first-class work at it. I had settled down to 
seed-raising and stock-raising as a means of getting a 
good living. When I came back the last time from 
Hew York and was near home I felt kind of ashamed 
to face my old work, and I said to myself, ‘ Dear me, 
I’ve been missing so much all these years ! I’m over 
forty years old, but I believe I’ll turn over a new leaf. 
Scramble as I may, perhaps I shall not catch up ; but 
I’m going to try ! ’ First, I’m going to study up all 
the latest, best ways of doing things; then I’m going 
to do them. I shall need to travel a little more than 
I’ve ever done. A man who stops in exactly one spot 
believes after a wdiile that this one spot is all of the 
world that it is worth while to look upon or learn about. 
Then I’m going to read — to find out what others are 
thinking and doing. We have no right to shut our- 
selves away from books. AYhat other men have ob- 
served and learned and thought it is a duty for us to 
know if we can. The Lord knows there are enough 
Avho may never have a chance, try as they will ; to such 
he will make up the loss in some way, but never to the 
one who has neglected his opportunities willfully. 


JESSIE WARD. 


35 


“ You are young, my boy, and it seems strange that 
I should tell all this to you, when it is kind of sacred 
to me — this new feeling — and I haven’t even told my 
wife Emmeline. All I can say is, I couldn’t help it.” 

He was right ; he could not help it ; neither could he 
have told exactly why he expected this boy to sympa- 
thize with him. The instinct that forces us to bare 
our souls to another is a mysterious one. The choice 
of companionship is in a sense involuntary ; we do not 
seem to reason in the matter ; we fly to possess our- 
selves of the blessedness of recognition. It has been 
so since the flrst mortal felt his whole inner nature 
stirred with the movings of aspiration so mighty that 
they forced him to relieve himself ; it must be so un- 
til the hour w’hen “ we shall know as we are known.” 

The man had chosen his confldant wisely, and the 
impression made upon Philip at this time remained 
with him and became one of the influences that shaped 
his course toward effective ends. 

He followed the enterprising farmer from barn to 
stable, looked with him through the drying-houses, 
listened to the unfolding of his plans ; and when this 
enthusiastic farmer added, as he took the boy’s hand, 
“ We shall make a success of it, I am sure ! Don’t you 
feel that we shall?” he felt that he had somehow 
been lifted to an unexpected place in his confldence. 

‘‘ You’ll stay to dinner with us, of course,” said Mr. 


36 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


Waite, as they crossed the lawn surrounding the 
house. 

“ I must get home before the storm grows hard,” 
Philip answered. 

Mr. Waite had been too much absorbed in relating 
liis experience and talking of his plans to notice the 
weather particularly ; but now he looked north and 
south, east and west, and gave a low whistle. 

‘‘ It’s upon us, my boy, a real old-timer ! They’ve 
had it up the river for many hours. Did you hear 
that ? It’s the waters, my boy — the waters have car- 
ried away the dam ! ” 

Philip only gave a word of “good-bye” and was 
gone. A wild fear had taken possession of him. He 
ran to reach a point from which Samson Ward’s house 
could be discerned ; but as he came near the bend in the 
road he saw a flying figure turning into the path ahead 
of him, and he felt that it was no usual errand that 
would give such speed to one’s motions. He quick- 
ened his own steps as he assured himself that the girl 
in advance was Jessie Ward and that there was trouble 
impending for the cabin-home upon the Anataw. 

And how was it in this mite of a cottage upon its 
insecure foundation ? 

“It’s a boat that’s wanted! A boat, my child,” 
said Mrs. Ward, as her daughter told her of the rising 
of the Anataw. 


JESSIE WARD. 


37 


will go over to Mr. Mayne’s, mother. I will 
ask them to lend me a boat ; I can row, you know, and 
if the water should idse around the house I can manage 
to save you and father and the bed and a few other 
tilings. But in the big flood, mother, you know it only 
rose to the door-step, and we shall not have a big flood 
now, I am sure,” the girl said, clieerfully. 

The mother shook her head and said, ‘‘ But I fear 
for the dam ; I have long thought we ought to have 
the house moved to a safe place, though,” she added, 
hopelessly, do not know how we could manage 
to do it. I think,” she said, after a short silence, “ you 
had better get ready to start ; there may be greater 
danger than we know ; do not waken your father.” 
The woman here gave a distressed look toward the 
lounge upon which her husband lay in a drunken 
sleep. “ By taking a longer sleep he will be better 
able to help when his help is needed,” she added. 
‘‘Jessie, dear precious child, kiss me,” she whispered. 
The girl bent down, and the mother put her wasted 
arms about her neck, and, giving her a passionate 
embrace, said, “We have met a great many trials 
together, dear one ; you have been my blessing always, 
darling.” 

Jessie left her mother’s bedside and hastened to get 
ready for her errand. 

“ Mother, I’m going. Ill get the boat and be back 


88 


ALONG THE AN AT AW. 


as soon as I can,” she said, as she bent low to kiss the 
pale face. 

‘^Jessie, nij child,” the mother whispered, with the 
force of presentiment in her manner, “you know 
what I’ve told you so many times, that nothing can 
really go wrong with one who makes up his mind to 
live a strong, true, brave life. I want you to promise 
me again that you will try to be brave and fight for 
the right.” 

Jessie gave her mother a startled look, but she 
kissed her again and promised. As she left the bed- 
side she thought, “ Mother is very nervous ; I wonder 
what she is fearing. It seems as if she thought she 
should not see me again ; of course her fears do not 
mean any thing really.” But, though she thus assured 
herself, after she had crossed the threshold over which 
her father’s reeling form had passed in an hour be- 
fore something bade her turn back, and, going softly 
forward, she bent over the drunken form and pressed 
a kiss upon the swollen lips ; then she hurried out 
of the house and started toward the home of the 
Maynes. 

She had not gone far when she heard the noise 
which had attracted the attention of Mr. Waite and 
had sent Philip hurrying home. She thought of her 
mother’s fears with regard to the dam above them. 
She almost fiew forward, and when she reached the 


JESSIE WARD. 


39 


Mayne house sank breathlessly upon tlie floor of the 
porch. 

Mrs. Mayne did not need words to tell her why 
the girl had thus come. She called : “ Thomas ! 
Thomas ! A boat ! Get the boat — two of them ! 
Here is Philip ; he will take one. Go quickly! ” 

Thomas had tl)at very day, only two hours before, 
come with Samson Ward from Doone’s as far as the 
road that turned toward Samson’s cottage. Thomas 
had not partaken as freely as usual of liquor, for the 
truth was his money was short, and Doone had made it a 
rule that he would in the future be more cautious 
about trusting people without property in their own 
right. 

“Didn’t I tell Samson this very day there was 
danger, and he said he would try and see to things ? ” 
answered Thomas Mayne to his wife’s entreaty with 
regard to the boats. 

“ But, Thomas ! Thomas ! there’s no time to be 
lost I ” cried his wife, in desperate tones. 

Just then Philip appeared in breathless haste. He 
did not speak to the girl who with white face and un- 
steady step had risen to start to the ferry to look for 
a boat. 

Philip ran down the hill ; the boats had drifted out 
upon the waters. He stood for a moment trying to 
decide what to do ; then a deafening roar echoed 


40 


ALONG THE ANATAW 


along tlie Anataw Yalley like tlie thunder of fate, 
and, looking behind him, he saw Jessie clasping her 
hands as she stood with her eyes riveted upon a dis- 
tant spot. A look of horror grew upon her face, and 
the awful fact of destruction forced itself upon her 
senses ; then she fell as if her death-blow had been 
struck. 

Before the others had known she knew that the 
lonely cabin, so tempting to the elements as a play- 
thing, could no longer hold itself against the rush of 
the waters. 

They carried the unconscious girl into the house, 
and then Philip and his father, with the help of 
others, followed the bank of the Anataw up to a 
spot where they could get a view of the destruc- 
tion which had been wrought. Mrs. Mayne sat by 
the side of the orphaned girl, and it was her hand 
which first grasped the poor girl’s as with returning 
consciousness the awful truth slowly dawned upon 
her despairing soul. It was her lips which first gave 
forth the words of sympathy with that tenderness 
only learned by self-surrendered lonely ones. 

The finding of the bodies of the two, the effect 
of the tragedy upon Masson, the never-to-be-forgotten 
scenes of the funeral, the pleadings of the stricken girl, 
“ O, let me die ! ” with her newer agony upon days 
that followed, might, each separate experience, make of 


JESSIE WARD, 


41 


itself a book of horrors illustrating the terrible results 
of the liquor reign. But such a book of tragedy who 
would be willing to read ? And yet there are few 
who in the course of a long life have not had more 
than one opportunity to read such tragedy in living 
characters. 


42 


ALONG THE ANATAW, 


CHAPTER lY. 

THE DEACON’S WIFE SPEAKS OUT. 

W HEN at last peaceful days came, and tlie Anataw 
went smiling again seaward, tliough it liad shattered 
homes and hopes, Jessie rose one morning full of 
the memoiy of her mother’s parting words to her, 
“You will try to be brave and fight for the right.” 
The influence had come to her through what seemed 
the gentle whisper of her mother’s voice in the night. 
She could never tell whether the state were a dream- 
ing or waking one when she began to recognize the 
sweet voice that had for dark days and weeks seemed 
lost to her forever. It w^as the dear mother as she had 
been in the old days of personal love and comfort, the 
weak, suffering woman, with the great heart of love 
and sympathy. She had never failed to promise her 
mother that she w’ould try to be brave. And when 
the memory of that last interview stood out now upon 
her clearing vision there seemed the meaning of 
prophecy in the command of her mother. If her 
mother were living, she assured herself, she would at 
once begin her efforts to be brave ; and the question 


THE DEACON'S WIFE SPEAKS OUT. 43 

presented itself, and would not be put away, “ Why 
shall I not be brave now?” She tried to answer, “I 
will, mother, dear;” but ah! there was no embodi- 
ment of mother-love and peculiar sympathy. How 
could she show herself willing in the old way ? She 
was like one putting forth her hand toward where a 
guide and help had stood ere the day fled ; she 
cried to a higher help through the memory of a 
blessed mother’s strength, and her soul became will- 
ing to try to be brave. With regard to the last of 
her promise, “ I will try to flght for the right,” she 
did not reflect upon its relative meaning. It was 
enough that she found herself able to try to be 
brave. 

She went down to the sitting-room and met the 
questioning look of Mrs. Mayne with such an assur- 
ing smile that the worn woman understood it as a 
promise for more peaceful experiences for the girl 
whom she had mothered in her first hours of worse 
than orphanage, and toward whom she had begun to 
feel peculiarly drawn. 

The bridge across the Anataw, at a point opposite 
the house at the ferry, had been carried away at the 
time of the overflow, and there was no way of cross- 
ing there but by boats. 

It is like the old times when grandfather lived 
here,” said Johnny, in glee, and asked, “ Don’t you 


44 


ALONG THE ANATAW, 


think it a great deal nicer, Philip, to cross by boats 
than by a bridge ? ” 

Philip did not answer, and Johnny prepared to 
follow his brother down to the water’s edge and 
watch him as he got the boat ready to take his father 
across the stream ; for go the man must ; it had been 
so long since he had met the company at Doone’s, and 
the spirit was npon him, urging him to join his com- 
panions — urging him on against the better impulses 
he had so long tried to stifle. 

Philip had heard his little brother’s words, and they 
had caused an inward smart, for he brought to mind 
what he had heard of those old Paley days when the 
liouse was a kind of castle, and only approached 
directly through the will of its lord, who sent his 
ferryman to answer signals of those wdio would be his 
guests — signals agreed upon between himself and his 
friends. And he — ? 

“ Am I a descendant of this man, and obliged to 
row my father across this river, once so honored, 
obliged to row him across that he may get the drink 
which shall make him a shame to himself and a dis- 
grace to us all ? ” 

When Thomas Mayne arrived at Martin Doone’s 
he found a larger company than he had been accus- 
tomed to see there before the flood. There was 
much to be said about the great rise, and many half- 


THE DEACON^ S WIFE SPEAKS OUT. 


45 


whispered remarks upon the awful deatli of Samson 
Ward and his wife. 

Martin Doone was enjoying quite an extensive 
patronage on account of the calamity to one family. 
On the whole it might be said that the group was a 
sorrowing one ; and do not laugh if I say that they 
drank the full glasses of whisky, even drained them 
of the last drop, while with a tear in the eye or a 
tremor in the voice they spoke of their late compan- 
ion, Samson W ard ; for do we not all know from 
observation that whisky is sought in sorrow as in 
mirth, and is supposed to enhance joy as to assuage 
grief? 

Martin was so very busy at this time that he liad 
very limited opportunities of delivering his views 
upon the peculiar ‘‘dispensation ” which had sent two 
mortals to their account. He gave his opinions in 
short, disconnected sentences between the delivery of 
the liquor. 

“ It’s my ’pinion,” he would begin, as he started to 
fill the glass, and when he returned lie would finish 
the sentence. His “’pinion” amounted to the belief 
that “Samson AVard was a big fool, who didn’t know 
when he had got just enough to drink.” And the 
result of such “foolery” he declared to be the de- 
struction of said Samson’s home. In tliis opinion 
Samson’s best friends, as well as those who were also 


46 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


weak in not knowing just when to stop drinking 
themselves, coincided. 

Where this point was no one seemed to specify, 
neither did they attempt to describe danger-signals 
that would stop a man from entering the fool’s way. 
Perhaps, after all, they were not quite clear-headed 
enough, even the coolest among them, to be able to 
discern the mystical signs for themselves. And yet, 
were they not a wise set at Doone’s ? And did they 
not take the greatest liberty with social and even 
with religious questions ? And were they not satisfied 
in their belief that their decisions were final ? They 
all agreed that day in mourning for their lost com- 
panion, but all agreed in a verdict of death by his 
own folly ! ” 

Tlie sewing society of one of the leading churches 
of Masson met that week, by order of the president, 
to talk of relief for sufferers by the fiood. Money 
was to be raised. The ways and means committee 
were instructed to propose some plan that seemed 
feasible for this object. After an hour’s private talk 
this committee returned to the parlor of the lady 
of the house wdiere they were meeting with the prop- 
osition to hold a three-days’ fair. This seemed to 
meet the approval of the ladies. As there were funds 
to bo raised a committee was appointed to solicit at 
the homes and places of business for this w^orking 


THE DEACON'S WIFE SPEAKS OUT. 


47 


fund. After the important business of the meeting 
had been attended to the company in groups of tliree 
or four talked over the details of the flood and the 
proposed method of relieving its sufferers. In one 
corner the fitness of calling upon Martin Doone for 
a contribution was considered. From this corner 
the subject passed for discussion to the general com- 
pany. 

The wife of a deacon who had made himself quite 
unpopular among the majority by his outspoken views 
upon what he considered to be vital questions said, 
‘‘Well, my husband says one might as consistently 
ask money for the needy from a man who was robbing 
and murdering all the time as to solicit for benevolent 
purposes from a rum-seller.” 

“ Hush ! ” said the president of the society as she 
glanced toward a lady who had just entered, “ she 
may hear you.” The president went forward and 
met the new-comer, saying, “ W e are glad to see you, 
Mrs. Doone ; we want your advice about many things.” 
Mrs. Doone in her heart felt that they wanted her 
inone}' more than any thing else. 

The hum of voices again began, and Deacon Mar- 
vin’s wife said to her next neighbor : “ I don’t really 
suppose Mrs. Doone is exactly to blame for her hus- 
band’s doings, and yet if she felt as ashamed as she 
ought to how could she hold up her head in society ? 


48 


ALONG THE ANATAW, 


How can she be willing to wear clothes bought with 
the price of suffering ? ” 

“And to think of velvet chair-cushions and all 
that!” said her neighbor, who, it must be owned, 
had a spice of envy in her make-up, and for whom 
“velvet cushions” and the like held great attractions, 
which were probably overestimated in her esteem be- 
cause so far beyond possible possession. 

But the deacon’s wife knew nothing of the prompt- 
ings of envy with regard to fine belongings in the way 
of house furnishings or of dress, and had never out- 
grown the legacy of chairs, tables, and bureaus that 
had been bequeathed her in love, and had through 
her long years of love in the deacon’s home become 
almost sacred through association. 

The placid face of this woman who had been such a 
true and happy wife was somewhat disturbed, though 
not through the effect of her neighbor’s words. She 
touched her well-worn cashmere almost tenderly with 
her work-worn hand, and a look of pride stole at 
length into the honest face which dignified it into a 
finer attraction and gave it the old peaceful expression. 

At last, as she was musing, she caught a sentence 
from the group of which Martin Doone’s wife was 
one, which brought a look of wonder to her face. It 
was not strange that she wondered, for these women, 
who knew wdiy Samson Ward’s house and home and 


THE DEACON'S WIFE SPEAKS OUT, 


life had been wrecked, wh}^ he, with his wife, had been 
surprised bj the flood, and why they had lost their 
lives, leaving the poor girl Jessie to an orphan’s fate — 
these very women were consulting with the wife of 
the rum-seller with regard to proper means of hel])ing 
Jessie Ward. 

‘^I’ve been thinking,” ventured Mrs. Doone, with 
the air of a benefactor, ‘‘that I might take the gii-1 ! 
I need extra help this summer, and then I could do 
well by her.” 

As the deacon’s wife caught the full meaning of 
the woman a look of horror grew into her eyes, and 
it must be owned that the otlier ladies who heard her 
proposition seemed quite uneasy in their minds. Mrs. 
Doone, if she noticed that the ladies failed to respond 
to her magnanimous proposal, had no conception of 
the way it might affect them. 

“ She is over at Thomas Mayne’s now,” added 
the philanthropist ; “ but it’s no place for her ; he 
cannot take care of his own, and of course not an- 
other’s, and that girl, Jessie Ward, has the best blood 
in the town in her veins. If her father had been 
what he ought to have been she would have had a 
chance to be a fine lady ! ” 

For one brief minute, like the ominous silence be- 
fore the tempest bursts, there was not a sound ; then 

the ladies, with their eyes cast down, were conscious 
4 


50 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


that a figure in black rose in their midst, that a voice 
trembling with the weight of its words said, ‘‘ Yes, 
it is true! If Samson Ward had not been a rum- 
drinker he would have been one of whom Masson 
might be proud! If Samson AVard had not been a 
rum-drinker his wife might have been living, a happy 
woman ! If Samson Ward had not been a rum- 
drinker his daughter would not need charity ! Some 
one helped to make him a drunkard ! Some one 
broke his wife’s heart! Some one cursed his daugh- 
ter’s life ! Some one is responsible for the awful ruin 
of that home ! It is time that Masson began to look 
into this matter of home-spoiling ! ” 

If a bomb shell had been sent into the ‘‘Ladies’ So- 
ciety” it could not have caused greater commotion 
than did these words of the wife of Deacon Marvin, 
though to the woman for whom they were intended 
they probably meant no more than the words of the 
nursery rhyme mean to the child who is pleased with 
the Mother Goose illustrations in the “ Death of Cock 
Kobin.” Some one had asked, “ AVho killed Cock 
Kobin?” No one has ever written for a nursery 
rhyme, “ Who killed the Man ? ” AYhen it shall be 
written, and the rhjme shall read, “ AA^ho shared the 
gains? ” the answer may be fittingly given, “I,” said 
the rumseller’s wife, “ with my silken purse. I shared 
the gains ! ” 


THE DEACON'S WIFE SPEAKS OUT. 


51 


As tlie brave woman sat down sbe cast a look about 
her — a look of pleading for support. She saw noth- 
ing that led her to hope that her words had even been 
secretly approved. She felt that it was time for her 
to shake the dust of the “ Ladies’ Society ” from her 
feet, and, rising, she bowed her ‘‘ Good afternoon,” 
and took her departure. 

If the deacon’s wife had surprised the society 
she had also surprised herself, for she was naturally a 
very timid woman, and only through special help 
from a power higher than her own found courage to 
become at one bound a temperance apostle. Mrs. 
Marvin had called herself for years a temperance 
woman ; but after all there is a wide difference be- 
tween a temperance sympathizer and a temperance 
worker. 


ALONG TIIE AN AT AW, 


52 


CHAPTER Y. 

MRS. DOONE MAKES A CALL. 

Mrs. Marvin seemed to be borne borne on wings. 
She was free at last, and she flew to bear the news of 
her emancipation to ber husband, tbe deacon. Sbe 
got bis supper ready, and tlien wdtb beating heart sat 
'waiting bis return from tbe field where be was at 
'work. 

He came at last, and after be bad seated himself at 
tbe well-spread table, and bis wife bad poured tbe tea 
and passed him a cup, be looked across at the wife 
who bad so long sat opposite at bis board, and was 
surprised at an unlooked-for expression upon ber 
face. He felt instinctively that something unusual 
was behind tbe look, and be asked : 

‘‘ What happened at tbe society, Polly ? ” 

“ Deacon, I have spoken out at last ! ” answered tbe 
new apostle, trembling with excitement. I have 
spoken out for temperance,” sbe repeated, and, lean- 
ing back in her chair, sbe put ber bands to ber face 
and burst into tears. 

Tbe deacon pushed back his plate of broiled bam, 


MRS. DOONE MAKES A CALL. 53 

and, rising from the table, lie went around to where 
his wife sat and folded her passionately in his strong 
arms. They were one at last: — these two who through 
long years of trial and devotion had been one as they 
believed in love and sympathy — they were one at last 
in that higher, truer sense, one in their sacrilicial 
spirit for the advance of truth. In this sense can a 
marriage union become immortal. 

‘‘ What did you say, Polly ? Tell me again,” said 
the deacon, at last. After the wife had told him the 
whole story of the diiferent discussions and remarks 
of the “ society,” with her own explosive final speech. 
Deacon Marvin exclaimed with clasped hands and 
lifted eyes, “ O, Lord, w^e bless thee for this ! ” Then 
turning to his wife he kissed her and whispered, 
“ Why, dear Polly, I adore you ! ” Years had passed 
since Samuel Marvin, the young ardent suitor for the 
hand of Polly Peters, first declared, love you, 
Polly ! ” With these years youth had gone, but ardor 
and devotion had held their own until this hour of 
love’s triumph. 

The Lord bless you, Polly ! ” the happy man con- 
tinued. “ I’ve been waiting for you to come out like 
this so long, Polly. I must tell you now, Polly, that 
I’ve been lonely like while I’ve waited, but it’s come 
at last ! I am blest, and you are a free woman, Polly. 
The truth has made you free I ” And Polly wins- 


54 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


pered, Yes, deacon, I know the truth — the truth at 
last — and it lias made me free ! ” 

I doubt if there was one woman, not excepting the 
wife of the rum-seller, among those who were left to 
consider the scathing words of Mrs. Marvin, who did 
not feel that a thrust had been rightlj given, and jet 
no one could have imagined from the manner of these 
benevolent women that there was such a feelino^ amonir 
them. Indeed, there was a murmur of dissatisfac- 
tion, and a few of the 'sveaker sort were effusive in 
their apologies for the conduct of one of their.num- 
ber on Mrs. Doone’s account. 

“ She has lived with the deacon long enough to be- 
come a fanatic,” said one. “ The church is obliged to 
put up with a great deal of impudence from Deacon 
Marvin,” said another, and added, “ Our minister has 
even been accused bj him of unfaithfulness, just be- 
cause he does not come out more decidedly for tem- 
perance.” A third remarked, “ There must be fana- 
tics, I suppose ; but what we have to do is to keep 
level-headed ourselves and see to it that w^e are not 
out of our balance. I do not mean that we should 
not bo temperance women ; of course we are ; ” and 
she glanced toward the rum-seller’s wife, who nodded, 
but wdiether approving the gist of the speech or the 
part thrown in for her benefit was not understood 
bj the ladies, who did not care to investigate beliefs 


MRS. DO ONE MAKES A CALL. 


55 


or motives. From tliis subject tlie conversation grad- 
ually glided into quiet speech ; and when the meeting 
broke up the plans for the benevolent scheme were 
matured. 

Martin Doone gave largely when the solicitors vis- 
ited him ; and this fact was noised about the town and 
placed on record in his favor even among people who 
were not in favor of his rum-selling course. The 
fair netted the society fifty dollars, and when the 
workers met to consider results some of them possibly 
might have thought tliat the showing was not so great 
as they had expected, especially as the eatables and 
fancy articles had been contributed ; but no one vent- 
ured to express an opinion at all derogatory to the 
affair, and when the president stated that flood-suffer- 
ers were admitted free of charge, and were given a 
supper without price — a supper with the oysters left 
out of the bill of fare — no one among them could 
have had the heart to question the benevolence of the 
management. 

It was allowable in Masson at this time to dispense 
with ordinary judgment in affairs connected with 
church or town benevolence, especially if ladies were 
at the head of such projects. With the stronger sex, 
accustomed to calculate accurately and wisely in ques- 
tions of profit and loss, a suspension of criticism with 
respect to financial disability was due rather to the 


ALONG THE ANA TAW 


56 

belief that the other sex could not be expected to bal- 
ance accounts with credit to any scheme which they 
might undertake. 

When the names of the surviving sufferers of the 
flood were called in the society and that of Jessie Ward 
was named it was discussed how much of the benevo- 
lent fund should be given to her and who should pre- 
sent it. To the embarrassment of the ladies generally 
Mrs. Doone offered her services for the errand. There 
was no dissenting voice, and it became a vote that the 
wife of the rum-seller should offer the j)ittance which 
the ladies had agreed upon to the orphan, Jessie Ward. 

There was something back of Mrs. Doone’s offer 
wdiich she did not reveal to the ladies. “ Martin,” 
she had said to her husband, one day, “ I have been 
thinking about that Jessie Ward, and whether it 
would not be a good idea to invite her to live with 
us. We have no girl of our own, and she is so bright 
and taking she could not fail to bo a credit to any one 
who gave her such help.” 

The words had found Martin in a mood not very 
favorable to such a proposition, and yet he did not 
think best to oppose the idea openly, and he made 
only a faint show of resistance at first. 

“Well, I don’t know,” he answered, in a musing 
manner. “I think you need help; in fact, with our 
increasing prosperity and better style of living, you 


MRS. DO ONE MAKES A CALL. 


57 


need more help, and I have always thought that if I 
took a girl to bring up it must be one who would lessen 
your cares, rather than increase them — hey, Jenny?” 
‘‘Hey, Jenny” was Martin Doone’s term of endear- 
ment, which was as satisfactory to his wife, perhaps, 
as finer expressions were to other women. 

“ I know, Martin,” she answered, with a gleam of 
pride in her eyes, “ I know we are yearly adding to 
our comforts, and are able to show better style in our 
living and to take more pride in the position we have 
earned ; but we are getting on in years, and a young 
lady in the house would keep us from getting old be- 
fore our time, and I do not understand what you mean 
by such a girl increasing my care, for she is fully 
fourteen, and very mature for her age, they tell me.” 

“Yes, I’ve heard Samson speak of her a thousand 
times,” answered Martin, reflectively. “ Samson set 
great store by that girl, and it was laughable to 
hear him talk of educating her and helping her to be- 
come a fine lady. Samson Ward knew what fine 
ladies were before he became a drunken fool ! I don’t 
know, Jenny ; she’s likely, a girl with her blood, to 
grow too high and mighty for us.” 

The real truth was that Martin had not the courage 
to face day by day the daughter whose father he 
knew, in his better moments, he had so cruelly 
wronged. He did not, however, wish to throw away 


58 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


his chance of gaining a name for philanthropy, and in 
the end his wife conquered, and with her two commis- 
sions set out for the house at the ferry. 

Two miles above the home of the Maynes there was 
a bridge across the Anataw, for enterprising farmers 
in that locality had pushed the matter after the tirst 
bridge had been carried away by the flood ; but down 
by the old Paley place there had been no one to attend 
to the reconstruction of a bridge, and the few passen- 
gers who wished to cross at that point were still fer- 
ried over by Philip when he happened to be at home. 

One evening after sunset, when he had returned 
from the Waite flirm, where he had begun to help, as 
he stood upon the bank of the Anataw thinking over 
the day’s doings and happenings, he saw a flgure ap- 
proaching the opposite bank of the river wliich he 
recognized as Mrs. Doone. A feeling of surprise took 
possession of him, and he would gladly have escaped 
the duty of answering her signal to row the woman 
over to the home side. “ What can she want of us ? ” 
he was asking himself as he made ready to row across 
the river. Philip was born with the instincts of a 
gentleman, and he was, from the necessities of this 
nature, courteous to every one, and he would not have 
J >een able to forget to be a gentleman to any woman, 
having an especial reverence for the sex to which his 
mother and sister belonged. 


MRS. BOONE MAKES A CALL. 


59 


When the passenger was seated and Philip had be- 
gun his task the woman said, ‘‘ I believe you have a 
young girl by the name of Jessie Ward staying at 
your house. Is she well ? ” 

“ She is well, and yet not well,” answered Philip. 
“ My mother says she grieves a great deal. It was 
all so dreadful to her ! ” 

Mrs. Doone, with the complacency of many who call 
themselves philanthropists and who stand on the outer 
edge of sympathy and know nothing of its central 
positions, remarked deliberately, “ Yes, it was dread- 
ful, and more aggravating because it really need not 
have happened if Samson Ward had taken proper 
precautions.” 

Philip, the boy, was then very impatient with his 
limitations. He would have given much to be able 
to step into manhood and assume its rights, the one 
right especially of speaking as one with authority in 
the interest of justice. But he only answered with 
respectful tones, from which, however, he could not 
keep back indignation entirely. “ If it had not been 
for drink, people say that Mr. Ward might have stood 
as high in Masson as the best, and his daughter would 
have been where she belongs ; every body will own 
that, I think.” 

Mrs. Doone did not offer a reply to this, and no 
more was said until they were landed upon the opposite 


60 


ALONG THE ANATAW 


side ; then the woman said, “ I came to have a little 
talk with this Jessie Ward, if you will please take me 
up to your home. I think I have never spoken to 
your mother; I should be much obliged.” 

Philip led her up to the house, hut did not call his 
mother, who he knew was sitting upon the porch 
which overlooked the old south lot and the hills be- 
yond. 

He seated the visitor in the old-fashioned parlor, 
and then went to seek Jessie. He found her beside 
his mother, and the two were in earnest conversation 
when he came up. 

When Philip made known Mrs. Doone’s request 
Jessie turned pale ; then she recovered herself, and, 
looking into Mrs. Mayne’s face, asked, in pleading 
tones, “ What shall I do ? ” Then covering her face 
as if to shut out an awful fate she remained motion- 
less for a minute. She rose then, and, going to Mrs. 
Mayne’s side, touched her hand and cried, “ O, how 
shall I meet her ? She is the wife of the man who 
helped to take my father’s life ! O, I cannot see her ! 
Tell me, Mrs. Mayne, what I shall do ? ” 

There was a strong conflict in the soul of the woman 
who had herself so suffered from the Doones, but at 
last she said, though the words seemed to come with 
great pain, “ Go, my girl.” 

Mrs. Doone, who had been surveying with amuse- 


MRS. DO ONE MAKES A CALL. 


61 


ment tlie worn, antiquated furniture of the best room, 
and making mental comparisons with another parlor, 
with its velvet upholstery, looked up to see Jessie 
Ward coming into the room. There were marks of 
suffering upon the pale face, and even in the very 
step of the girl, tliat even the most careless observer 
would notice. Mrs. Doone shrank at siglit of her, but, 
recovering her self-possession, she said, as Jessie sank 
into a chair, “ I am very sorry for you, and I have 
come to talk with you of your future.” Jessie gave 
a long sob and then surrendered herself to a passion 
of tears. 

Mrs. Doone began to regret tliat she had started 
upon this mission, and began to realize, too, that it re- 
quired something more of sympathy and Tact for an 
outfit than she had suspected. Slie witnessed the 
signs of deep grief, and felt tliat if a way of grace- 
fully retreating should present itself she would cer- 
tainly take advantage of it. She toyed with the han- 
dle of her parasol, smoothed the folds of her dress, 
and pressed convulsively the purse which held the 
small sum of money which the Ladies’ Society had 
instructed her to offer the orphan. 

At last the bowed head was i-aised, the eyes were 
dried, and Jessie Ward found courage to look into 
the face of the woman whose husband had so wronged 
her father. 


62 


ALONG TEE AN AT AW. 


Mrs. Doone mistook tlie expression, and began to 
explain her errand. I Lave come to offer you a 
home. My hnsband and I have decided tliat we are 
in a condition to give one worthy, like yourself, proper 
advantages.” 

She paused to notice the effect of her generosity. 
The girl rose ; a defiant look covered the softness of 
her features. She met the eyes of the rum-seller’s 
wife, and the latter knew that there was no hope of 
the success of her mission. 

“ I cannot take the home you offer ! I could not if 
I were sick and not able to earn my living ! ” she 
said. 

Mrs. Doone, astounded, and feeling a rising indig- 
nation toward one who had so plainly scorned her 
magnanimous offer, said, as she rose, 

‘‘ I came to you with my proposed kindness because 
I knew you to be a poor, homeless, friendless girl, and 
I did not expect, I Avill own, to receive such treat- 
ment. My husband will tell me I was a fool.” 

‘‘ I am not friendless,” replied Jessie, and added, 
'^If 1 am homeless the drink which iny poor father 
got at Mr. Doone’s store made me so.” 

Mrs. Doone thought it not best to offer the money 
after what had passed, and, making a liasty adieu, she 
took her way out and down to the river’s side, where 
she saw Philip waiting by the boat. 


MRS. DOONE MAKES A CALL. 


63 


As Philip took from the woman’s hand the price 
of the ferriage he thought, This, perhaps, is money 
that came from some poor fellow whose home has 
suffered from it.” 

Jessie told Mrs. Mayne of the interview in every 
particular, and as the lady listened she felt an in- 
creased admiration for the girl who had suffered and 
braved so much. 

“You have done nobly,” said Mrs. Mayne. “I 
think you are beginning to learn to follow your 
mother’s command to ‘fight for the right.’ ” 

Jessie clasped her hands, and her face became sud- 
denly lighted with a new joy — a joy that comes from 
accepting a life purpose. 

“ How could I help saying all that I did say ? ” 
asked she, as her eyes shone with the new fire. Then 
she added, softly, “ I think it was mother’s last words, 
and that last minute in the dear home, that came to 
me and gave me courage to keep my promise to stand 
for the right and to be brave. I was forced to say 
just what I did. How could I have said less? I am 
sure I shall never be sorry. Hever ! ” 

“I’ve been thinking, Mrs. Mayne,” she continued, 
“ that it is time for me to be looking about to find 
some way of supporting myself. I know that my 
mother would have advised me to start out bravely 
for myself, could she have foreseen.” And then in a 


64 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


whisper, I ain not sure that she did not fear that 
something like this trial iniorht come to me. You 
have been very, very kind to me ; perhaps sometime 
I may be able to be of service to you, dear Mrs. 
Mayne. If I can I shall be so glad ! ” 

You have helped me, Jessie — helped me more than 
you know. We have suffered from the same awful 
curse, and there should be a sympathy between such 
sufferers unknown to others. You have given me 
courage to believe that I too may fight for the right. 
Who knows what I may be able to do to help against 
the awful rum-power here in Masson ? ” answered Mrs. 
Mayne. 

The two sat in silence looking toward tlie east, 
where the sun had just passed from sight but had 
left a glory behind. Long they sat without a word, 
and then Jessie broke the silence by saying, “I 
have been thinking that Mrs. Marvin, over in Mas- 
son, might know of some place where I might be 
able to earn my living. Deacon Marvin and his wdfe 
were very kind to me, were kind to us all. Mother 
used to say tliat a few words from Deacon Marvin 
held more than some sermons for her. I have lieard 
her say so many times that if the temperance people 
of Masson were all like him the rum-sellers could not 
live in the town.” 


THE ORPHAN FINDS A HOME. 


65 


CHAPTER YL 

THE ORPHAN FINDS A HOME. 

Jessie Ward was not obliged to go to Mrs. Marvin, 
for tliat lady, who had pleaded the cause of those op- 
pressed by the rum-power, had shown herself willing 
to be their friend even through care and sacrifice. 

‘‘Deacon,” she had said, one evening, “I have 
something on my mind, something that has been 
there since the meeting of the society that after- 
noon, you know, when I came out.” 

“ Bless your heart, Polly,” the deacon answered, “ I 
could never forget that day ! Do you think, when 
I’d waited years and years for it, Polly, that it could 
slip out of my mind, or be classed with other days ? 
Indeed it couldn’t. Let us hear, Polly, what’s on 
your mind. Something worthy of that ‘coming out,’ 
I know.” 

“Well, deacon,” she answered, as she lifted happy, 
shining eyes to his, “it is something about that poor 
girl, Jessie Ward ; she needs a home, and I’ve been 
thinking that I might find one for her up at the 

Waite farm. I heard Mr. Waite say awhile ago that 
5 


6G 


ALONG THE ANA TAW. 


lie would like to get a companion for bis Edith. 
You know she is a kind of an invalid, and her fatlier 
says that it is hard to keep her amused and clieerful. 
!N^ot that I believe in that sort of thing. I think it is 
as you start with children; if you bring them up to 
think they must lutve somebody to make a good time 
for them all the while they wdll never try to find 
pleasure for themselves ; but I suppose there is really 
no help for it now that the poor girl is a confirmed 
invalid, and, they do say, cannot live long. 

“Well, as I was going to say, deacon, I should like 
to have you lend me — and, mind you, I want her har- 
nessed and hitched to the carriage and tied to the post 
— I would like to have you lend me Sorrel. I know just 
how you feel, now, about a woman’s driving her, but 
I’ll promise not to jerk the reins or do any thing to 
spoil her for you, deacon.” 

Deacon Marvin had liis peculiar notions and pet 
ideas with regard to horseflesh, and Sorrel had been 
set- apart by him as sacred to the masculine art of * 
horsemanship. It is well to explain that the deacon, 
like many another horse-owner, had suffered an expe- 
rience which had not given him an exalted opinion 
of tlie “women folks’” management of horses. He 
had fully made up his mind that Sorrel should never 
suffer the humiliation of having her ribbons handled 
by mortal woman ; but what man, though ho may 


THE ORPHAN FINDS A HOME. 


67 


encase himself in armor, can be proof against the re- 
served arts of women ? And had not Polly become 
transformed in the deacon’s eyes ? 

The result was that Polly, who had made up her 
mind long before never to sue for this favor, gained 
her suit, and found herself late one afternoon driving 
Sorrel toward the Waite farm. 

Philip had just started for home as she drove up to 
the horse-block, and Mr. Waite was leaning over the 
gate looking after him as he disappeared around a 
corner. He was thinking of what Philip had told 
him of the orphan girl, and was just making his decis- 
ion to invite her to be company for his Edith, when 
he saw Mrs. Marvin before him. He went out 
to help her to alight, but the lady shook her head as 
he invited her to go into the house, and with a little 
embarrassment began to tell her errand. 

‘‘Just exactly what I had ou my mind, Mrs. Mar- 
vin,” exclaimed Mr. Waite. I want that girl. Pm 
sure she’s j ust the one for a companion for my Edith. 
I shall go down and try to arrange matters to-mor- 
row. I will promise to do for her as if she were my 
own child. She shall have as good advantages as I 
can afford. I have different views of knowing 
and doing from those I had six months ago. The 
world doesn’t seem quite so narrow to me as it did 
then. I believe there’s a chance, too, for one as old 


68 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


as I am to grow. At least I shall try to find it,” he 
added, humbly. 

How the conversation drifted into moral questions, 
and at last settled upon the subject of temperance, 
Mrs. Marvin could never tell even her husband ; but 
when she at last drove Sorrel to the home-gate her 
face was a study to the deacon, who was so attracted 
by its expression that lie forgot to observe how his fa- 
vorite animal had borne service under a woman’s hand. 

“ Polly, what is it ? ” he asked. 

“Why, deacon, I do really believe that Mr. Waite 
is about ready to come out,” she answered. 

“To come out for temperance, do you mean, 
Polly ? ” her husband asked, eagerly. 

“ Yes, for temperance,” the wife replied, and added, 
“ Why, I could not have expected it, and I’ve been 
wondering how it happened that he should feel so 
strongly upon the subject. I suppose it is the efiect 
of the flood, Samson Ward’s death, and all that.” 

“ Yes, partly that,” said the deacon, reflectively. 
“ But have you never noticed, Polly, that one earnest 
purpose breeds a thousand, and one soul that suddenly 
becomes brave sets a leaven at work mysteriously ? I 
don’t profess to know how to explain these things, 
but I know there is something behind my words that 
has a meaning. You can’t keep power in a corner, 
Polly. And the power that belongs to a true pur- 


THE ORPUAK FINDS A HOME. 


69 


pose can’t be lost. Your coming out, Polly, was tele- 
graphed in some way to others, who were just ready, 
and, mark my words, you will hear of others yet who 
have come out. It was a blessed hour for you, dear, 
when you made up your mind to stand for the right ! 
I am not sure but you are the pioneer for the cause 
of temperance in Masson.” 

Polly went up the walk, as the deacon led Sorrel 
away, a happy woman. No queen newly crowned 
could have felt the dignity of honors more really 
than did this wdfe with her husband's commendation 
in her ears. 

Mr. Waite said to Philip as he came into the yard 
the next morning, I have made up my mind to go 
down to yonr house and have a talk with the young 
orphan girl. I am going to invite her to come and 
be a companion to my Edith.” 

Philip was delighted to hear this news, for he had 
learned much of the orphan’s desire to begin to brave 
the world. And to feel that a home in such a family 
as Squire Waite’s was to be opened to her was a hap- 
piness that he had not dared to expect for her. 

‘‘ I heard her tell mother,” said he, ** that she wished 
to find a home where she could ])ay her way. I do 
not think she expects to take what she does not earn.” 
And he said it like one who is proud of another’s 
bravery and independent feeling. 


70 


ALONG THE AN AT AW. 


“ "Well, then,” replied Mr. 'W’aite, “I think we can 
come to terms, for Edith needs a great deal of care 
and help in little ways ; there will be a little sewing, 
with a great deal of reading and music and some 
study, for both of them. I will go right down and 
see her about it, and perhaps we can strike a bargain. 
I shall offer to give all that I take ; you may be sure 
of that, my boy.” 

The generous man went that very forenoon down 
to the home at the ferry and put his benefaction in 
the form of a favor to be done himself so decidedly 
that there was not the least shade of any thing dis- 
agreeable to Jessie about it. 

You may find it a little hard at first,” said Mr. 
Waite, “for Edith is a spoiled child, and has become 
so used to attentions that she cannot do without them. 
'But youJl find her a darling girl — a darling girl!'''* 
he added, with emphasis, while his face beamed with 
fatherly pride and love. “I want you to come at 
once ; I will send my carriage for you after the sun 
is down to-night.” 

He was a happy man as he took his way back to 
his home, and he nodded gleefully to each way-side 
flower, even of the meanest sort, that lifted its face 
to the sun, and he whistled gayly as the birds sang 
round him. This peculiarly happy state did not 
come alone through the working of his plan for his 


THE ORPHAN FINDS A HOME. 


71 


own child, but he was rejoiced tliat he laid found tlie 
chance to help the orphan Jessie. 

After the girl had given her promise cO him, and 
-had watched him as lie stepped briskly out of the yard 
and was lost to her sight, a sense of the c;)ming re- 
sponsibility, of the new scenes, and of the fact that .she 
had forever left the old, sweet home influences — that 
there must in future be no indulgence in grief over 
lier loss, but that life must be met, no matter what 
trials it might offer — all this rushed upon her conscious- 
ness and challenged the woman’s heart in her, while 
it almost overpowered her. If it had not been that her 
mother’s words presented themselves to her memory 
as they had many times since they were uttered she 
might have insisted upon a longer tarrying with her 
memories. As it was she, only a girl in years, girded 
herself like a wmman to meet the future. 

The parting from the friends at the ferry was a 
great trial. She could not trust lierself to thank Mrs. 
Mayne for her motherly kindness; but as she laid 
her hand in the work-hardened ones of the suffering 
friend she answered her look of love and sympathy 
with one which meant what words might have given 
as, I understand your trials, and I love you.” 

Philip canned out to the carriage her small bundle, 
which contained the few garments which the poor 
girl had made from material furnished by Mrs. 


72 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


Marvin, and as lie handed it to her just as the man 
was about to -drive away he only whispered, “ You 
•will have a beautiful home ; I am so glad ! ” 

As Bernard, the driver, entered the carriage-way 
the family came out to greet the new-comer. Mrs. 
"Waite was by the side of her husband, while Edith 
rose from the low seat and came forward to greet lier 
future companion. Even black Esther, the cook and 
long-time treasure of the family in the way of help, 
considered it an occasion of sufficient importance to 
allow her to leave her special department. 

She had a great desire to see this girl who was to 
be so near the one whom she had tended and helped 
to spoil since her babyhood. 

“This is Esther,’’ said Mr. Waite, as the tall, spare 
form of the negress bent to look into the eyes of 
Jessie. “ She is one of us, Esther is ; we could not 
get along without her. This is our new daugh- 
ter,” he continued, as the negress still searched the 
face of the stranger. “ You must take her to your 
heart, Esther, as you have Edith.” 

“ I’ll be a friend to you, honey. I’ll promise it,” the 
deep voice answered slowly, as if uttering a vow. 

When the two young girls were alone Edith said, 
“ I am so glad you have come, it has been so lonely 
for me.” Then she paused, and across the delicate, 
pretty face came a look of impatience. “You see,” 


THE ORPHAN FINDS A HOME. 7S 

she began, by way of explanation, they are all so 
very busy — papa and mamma — and Esther seems to 
grow more and more anxious to do any thing else 
than to amuse me.’’ 

“ But you have your music ? ” suggested Jessie. 
“ Are you lonely with that ? ” 

“ O, yes ; I’m lonely when I have no one but my- 
self to enjoy it. Papa says you are to take lessons of 
my teacher ; he comes from the city twice each week, 
and he is quite wonderful, every body thinks. lie 
makes so much out of a little. Why, he will take a 
very common piece of music, or what seems to me 
such, and make it sound enchanting. But perhaps,” 
she continued, “you do not like music, and would 
not care to take lessons of him ? I will own it is all a 
boro to me most of the time.” 

Jessie had clasped her hands, and her face was 
flooded with an expression of surprise and delight, 
an^l when Edith glanced at her she caught the rapt 
look and said : 

“I think }ou would like it, and I’m sure Mr. Du 
Bois will enjoy having a pupil who loves music.” 

“ I should like to learn music — like it better than I 
can tell,” replied Jessie, at last. “ I have sometimes 
dreamed that I was a musician, but I never really 
dared to hope that it could come to pass.” 

That night, after Jessie had retired to her bed- 


74 


AL ONG THE AHA TA W. 


room, she sat down and tlionght over the strange 
events of the day. It was almost like a fairy-tale. 
She had risen the morning of that very day with the 
necessity of seeking employment pressing upon her 
attention ; that necessity had been removed, and she 
was in a home wliere slie would receive advantages 
equal to those given the daughter of the house. She 
was trying to make it all seem real, when a low knock 
sounded, and Edith’s voice called, “ May I come in 
for a minute?” Of course she answered ‘‘Yes,” 
and the slender figure, in an attractive dressing-gown, 
glided in and dropped itself at her feet. 

“ She is a lovely creature! ” was Jessie’s thought as 
the pretty face raised itself to hers and made signs of 
wishing to be kissed. She bent her head and kissed 
the sweet mouth, but before her lips had left the per- 
fect ones of the girl an unaccountable feeling of 
repulsion seized upon her. It telegraphed to the 
consciousness of the girl at her feet before she could 
herself have explained its nature. 

Edith started suddenly. 

‘‘You are sure you will not get tired of me? Are 
you sure you will love me always?” she asked, and 
then she burst into tears. Jessie was moved to pity 
and stung by an undefined reproach as the bright 
liead sank upon her knee. She smoothed the soft 
braids and tried to soothe the girl by endearing 


TEE ORPHAN FINDS A HOME. 


75 


words, made more eifective by her self-reproacli. 
She evaded answering the questions, however, for in- 
stinctively she felt tliat a great trial was to come 
with reference to this companionship to which sh'e 
was bound. 

I will not ask you that,” the girl said, as she 
raised her head at last. “I know you will become 
tired of me. Every body does. They all like me for 
a while, but I become tiresome at last. I cannot tell 
why. I don’t ask you never to tire of me, but if you 
will be patient with me perhaps in some way I can 
be made useful to you, though I cannot quite imag- 
ine how.” 

The smiles came soon again to the face that had 
been so clouded, and the graceful creature quite won 
the admiration of her listener as she prattled on of 
her home, and especially of her father’s goodness. 

“ He is so noble and generous,” she declared, “ and 
he gives so much love and care to me, and gets noth- 
ing in return. You see he expects to give all and 
receive nothing. I do not mean that I do not love 
and admire him, but 1 cannot help him ; I really do 
not know how. I believe I was born to get all and 
give nothing. If I only knew how to be of use! 
But I reall}^ do not. Well, I must not stay and 
keep you from sleep ; to-morrow we will talk it all 
over.” 


76 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


She rose as she finished, and, gliding to the door, 
went out, her silvery voice singing a “ good-night.” 

‘‘ And this is the new life. And that companion- 
ship is to he yours, on and on, perhaps, for years. 
That helpless, exacting girl — exacting from her weak- 
ness and helplessness — may demand of you all that 
makes life precious ; who can tell ? ” a voice seemed to 
whisper in Jessie’s ear, prophesying vaguely against 
her brightest hopes and dearest plans. “ Better for 
me that I had gone out to battle single-handed if I 
could still have my freedom,” she felt and pronounced 
under her breath. 


LEADERS FOR THE WAR, 


77 


CHAPTEE YII. 

LEADERS FOR THE WAR. 

To one like Jessie Ward, whose home atmosphere 
had been so charged with independence and sacrifice, 
a character like that of Edith Waite must seem ab- 
normal, if not repulsive. To be sure, Jessie had been 
forced into early maturity of character, and must find 
it difficult to affiliate with those of her own years; but 
there is always a sympathy between two who possess 
unselfish traits or instincts, and such can never be 
really separated. Jessie had embraced her mother’s 
theory that a true life will be a brave, sacrificial one ; 
and having just begun to appreciate the higher mean- 
ing of such a life the revelation that had come to her 
through the dependent, purposeless girl bore to her 
the nature of a mental shock. 

“ God help me ! ” she murmured as she laid her 
head upon the pillow of her new bed. “God help 
me to be brave ! ” 

The next morning was a bright, beautiful one, and 
as Jessie opened the shutters that had hidden the 
well-kept lawn from her sight and heard the birds as 


78 


AL ONG THE ANA TA W. 


tliej sang -from every busli and tree, slie was thrilled 
with the thought, I am to look out upon this day 
after day — all this is mine to enjoy.” As she stood 
looking upon it all she heard the sound of the piano 
and Edith’s voice singing gayly a light air. The 
breakfast-bell sounded, and she went down the stairs, 
at the foot of which Mr. "Waite stood to receive her. 
He took her hand and led her into tlie parlor, saying, 
as he did so, “ I suppose you can sing, my girl ! ” 

I can a little,” Jessie answered. 

“ Well, tlien,” he continued, as Edith came forward 
to give lier new companion a morning greeting, I 
want you to give me an old-fashioned song. Edith 
will play. Can you sing alto, my girl ? ” 

‘‘I will tiy,” Jessie answered. 

“ O, papa! Why do you want that horrid song 
sung?” asked Editli, a little impatiently. 

“Because I learned it of my mother,” the father 
answered, his tones softened to almost a whisper. 

“I declare that is singing!” he exclaimed", as the 
song ended. “You’ve got what tliey call ‘ a gift,’ 
my girl, a real gift, I should say. Little one,” he 
added, turning to his daughter, “ now I am sure time 
will not lag as it has.” 

When he went out to attend to his day’s business 
he said, “ Get all the pleasure you can out of the 
day, both of you. We ai’e a busy set here at the 


LEADERS FOR THE WAR. 


79 


farm, and are likely to grow busier now montli by 
month, but the young- people need not share the care 
and work.” 

“You forget Philip Mayne, father,” said Edith. 
“ He works like a grown man.” 

“ Ah, yes ; I did forget,” replied her father, with a 
serious tone. “ Philip seems like a man to me, but he 
must take a little time for enjoyment, too. I shall 
try to persuade him to come and try a song occa> 
sionally.” 

“ Do you stay here by yourself all day ? ” asked 
Jessie of Edith, with a surprise which she was unable 
to conceal. 

“ Why, no ; lam not obliged to stay in this room, 
though it is the pleasantest in the house. I go where 
I please ; but mamma and Jane and Esther seem to 
have scarcely a minute to give to me.” 

“ And do you have no friends, none living in Mas- 
son with whom you can talk of your music and of 
the books you read ? ” asked Jessie. 

“ I have no one who really is j^leasant to me as a 
companion,” she replied. “They all have their own 
particular likings and their little plans to talk about 
and interest them. I cannot get up an enthusiasm 
for their things, and I do not pretend to ; so I go my 
separate way — or have gone,” she added. “ In the 
future you are to go with me every step of the way,” 


80 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


she said emphatically. “Papa j)romised me that I 
should have you for my very own always.” 

At dinner that day Mr. Waite turned to his wife 
and asked, with a tone of concern, “ Have you been 
overworking ? ” 

“Ho, not more than I have done through the 
spring,” answered the wife. “ But you see there is 
so much to be done, and so many things to care for, 
that I am obliged to be very busy. But this is a 
'work world, you know, husband,” she answered. 

It is a problem that is seldom satisfactorily solved 
that parents whose lives have been marked by per- 
sistent labor and wearing responsibility should so often 
shield a child from a healthful amount of labor. But 
is not much of the world’s effort and achievement 
the outcome of the desire to make life easier for 
loved ones that are to enter the arena of experience 
when the worker has ceased his labors ? 

In this particular case the tender parent-love guarded 
the life of this their only child very jealously, so that 
not a rough wind should disturb her enjoyment, for 
they had been twice called to part wdth a daughter, 
each time when the dear one had reached tlie a<re of 
nineteen. 

Observers remarked, “ These people are killing their 
child with kindness ; ” and if there was truth in the 
remark the fond parents were not able to discover it. 


LEADERS FOR THE WAR. 


81 


The music-lessons began with Jessie the very next 
week, much to her delight ; and when Mr. "Waite asked 
the teacher with regard to liis new pupil’s musical 
ability tlie enthusiastic professor replied with many 
gesticulations, Mees Jessie springs to de soul of 
harmony.” 

And what this man declared with regard to the 
girl in this especial direction was true of her in other 
respects ; she sprang to the soul of things. I^ature 
had kept her under the best training, as she showed 
her wonderful arts in the region along the Anataw. 
From the appearance of the first dandelion, until 
the fiaming sumac made the field glorious, she had 
felt through all the changes the power of the force of 
love and beauty back of the display. 

When Jessie found this opportunity offered to her 
of cultivating her musical talent a strange joy and 
gratitude took possession of her, and she felt vaguely 
that a new way had been offered her for self-support. 
It might not be her privilege for years, perhaps not 
until she had passed her youth by many years, not 
until she had seen the death of many of her youthful 
hopes, certainly not until she had discharged her last 
duty to the young girl over whom she had sworn to 
watch ; but some time, somehow, she believed, she 
would be permitted — even called — to go forth and do 

battle with the world. 

6 


82 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


Edith, as the days passed, was more and more 
charmed with her companion ; she learned to confide 
in her and lean npon her more and more. Mr. and 
Mrs. AYaite noticed tlie great change in their daughter’s 
appearance, and rejoiced at it, and in the judgment 
of all tlie arrangement was just what was needed for 
the daughter of the house. 

Black Esther shook her head and said gravely, be- 
yond the hearing of the family, I wish de po’ lamb 
didn’t ask de nussin’ and de tendiid now ; dere’s a time 
o’ need comin.’ In my ’pinion de Lord ’spects us to walk 
when dere’s strength. When de voice calls, ‘ Come 
hyer, chile,’ time nuff ter foller de oder chillen.” 

Black Esther, let it be explained, was confidently 
expecting to hear the voice calling to this last idolized 
child to follow the others away from earth ; she had 
not the slightest hope that the last child would be 
spared beyond the age which had seemed a fatal period 
to the others. For this call, that she might hear its 
first whispers, he had trained her spiritual ear, for this 
following she had been fitting her sympathies, on 
account of the hearts that must be left to sorrow. 
Sometimes Avdien she saw the look of pride and love 
which the father gave his child, and knew that in 
spite of liis past experiences he was making calculations 
for her future, she shook with fear for Avhat her pro- 
phetic nature told her must happen. Born and reared 


LEADERS FOR THE WAR. 


83 


In slavery, she possessed all the intense emotions com- 
mon to a repressed race, and was remarkable for her 
delicate instincts. Her reverence, though often amount- 
ing to superstition, kept her whole soul bowed before 
the higher mysteries, ready to listen to the faintest 
whisper of warning or of command. In the concerns 
that seemed to her vital she felt that slie stood between 
this mysterious power and the family to wliose service 
she had been so long pledged to interpret what she 
might see through her visions. 

To Edith she was especially attached ; she had taken 
care of hei'from her babyhood, had twined her golden 
hair around her black fingers, had taken kisses from 
the rosy lips, had named her in rapture ‘‘de angel 
baby,” and when the others were taken she had de- 
spairingly told her fearful heart, Yes, she’ll be de 
angel sure befo’ long.” 

With all her tenderness toward the girl she some- 
times showed a great impatience with her lack of 
energy and self-reliance. She tried with all the arts 
of wliich she was mistress to rouse her to try her 
strength and endurance ; but Edith was never inspired 
by tlie love or the efforts of her black nurse to test 
these powers. 

‘‘ How can yer ’spect to know ’bout yersef if yer 
never try yer arm, honey ? ” Esther asked in vain, and 
she murmured after each unsuccessful attempt to in- 


84 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


fluence the po’ lamb ” to action, ‘‘ De king ob ter- 
rors wont find a mite ob ’sistance from dat chile, 
when he comes.” 

Esther noticed with much satisfaction and hope 
the infiuence of Jessie’s passionate, energetic nature 
upon Edith. “ It’s ketchin’ sometimes,” she said to 
herself; ‘Hhere was my ole man Jonah; he hadn’t a 
bit o’ spunk he could rightly call his own, but he 
kotched such a heap from me that he grew to be quite 
a brave man. 'Worthless enufi he was when I took 
him, but befo’ he died nobody could p’int the finger 
at him and call him good-fur-nothin’.” 

Esther’s idea that passion and energy were ‘‘ketch- 
in’ ” seemed in a sense to be borne out by the result of 
the companionship of the two young people. There 
were times when, in the presence of Jessie, Edith’s 
stop would quicken and an expression that promised a 
purpose gather in her face, so that one who did not 
understand that the infiuence was only from the power 
of the person, as that person devoted herself to the 
interests of the one who was receptive alone in her 
nature, would believe that the darling of the house 
might be spared to a long life of love and joy. 

Philip had frequent opportunities to observe the 
effect of the new companionship, and he was not too 
young and inexperienced to notice the great gulf fixed 
between the characters of the girls. Whenever he 


LEADERS FOR THE WAR. 


85 


talked long with Edith he began to feel a strange 
sense of loss, which he called to himself a tired feel- 
ing.” He could not explain, as those who have made 
“ magnetism ” a study might, that there had been a 
great draught upon his mental, spiritual, and intellect- 
ual fund. Who can tell to what part of our nature it 
exclusively belongs — this power which we call magnet- 
ism ? Call it what we will, try to describe it as we 
may, we must believe that the gift of a largo sympathy 
enters greatly into its nature. Tlie girl whose instincts 
compelled her to absorb so much was destitute of 
wide and deep sympathy. 

On the other hand, Jessie bestowed rather than re- 
ceived. Philip always felt lifted when he had talked 
wdth her. Ilis whole nature sprang to embrace the 
chance for a wider outlook ; he felt equal to brave 
deeds; he would have scorned small doing and low 
living then, though riches and seeming honors had 
been the gift offered with it. 

He was, as has been said, conscious of these separate 
effects without being at all able to explain them. Day 
by day as he went back and forth he pondered these 
things, and they had their effect upon his maturing 
purpose for his mother, his sister Annie, his little 
brother Johnny, and even for his father. He meant 
if possible to restore the old house, to afford his mother 
a peaceful home, to make his sister Annie a lady, 


86 


ALON-G THE ANATAW. 


beautiful and adored, to help liis brother Johnny to 
become — what ? He always stopped before this ques- 
tion ; he had no idea of what would seem best for 
Johnny. And his fatlier? He felt that for him 
only a battle against the rum-power could avail ; he 
knew that sometime such a battle must be begun ; 
he felt helpless and almost powerless before the awful 
force that year by year was stripping his father of his 
manhood. He in desperate moments cried out wildly 
in the darkness, ‘‘ Who will help in Masson, to save 
my father from rum ? ” 

But no voice told his young soul who should rise up 
to lead forth a conquering army against the powers 
of destruction. 

Meanwhile in Masson the leaven of truth had 
begun to work. 

“ Deacon,” said Mrs. Marvin, one evening, as she 
laid away her best mantle and bonnet, ‘‘ I am almost 
disgusted ! ” 

Deacon Marvin took off his reading-spectacles and 
adjusted his “observing” ones, and, looking earnestly 
into his wife’s face, asked : 

“ What is it, Polly ? ” 

“ I really can’t understand, deacon,” she answered, 
“ how the Church will ever be able to put on the gar- 
ments of righteousness so long as it shuts its ears to 
crying wrongs in this town. And what do you think 


LEADERS FOR THE WAR. 


87 


has just happened? Martin Doone’s wife had a party 
the other night, and had wine. But that isn’t all. 
The minister went, and although he didn’t drink him- 
self he didn’t have a word to say against his church 
members drinking ; and yet he told me a few days ago 
that a large share of the misery of the town was 
caused by liquor. He knew, too, that the funds to pay 
for the party came from the liquor-selliiig of Martin 
Doone, and that many a poor creature had spoiled his 
life and his home through liquor. I’ve been around 
this afternoon among the poor, suffering families, and 
I saw enougli to make my heart ache ; and I 
wished that Christ could go around again in person, 
and that some of the suffering creatures who couldn’t 
find courage to ask him to help them could touch the 
hem of his garment and be cured. It is very strange,” 
she added, musingly, ‘‘that my eyes are only fairly 
opened to see the truth with regard to this ruin of 
rum.” 

Her husband gave her a glance of admiration as he 
said : 

“Well, really, Polly, you are growing eloquent, 
you are really alive now, and it has all come to you, 
this new e-nthusiasm, because you were brave enough 
to come out that day when the society met. I’ve 
thought since then, Polly, that you and I may be 
counted worthy to lead the van in this warfare. The 


88 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


soldiers are not ready to be niiistered yet, wife. Tlie 
Lord hasten the hour when the army is ready to march 
on to victory ! ” 

It would be very strange/’ said Mrs. Marvin, 
thoughtfully, ‘‘ if I should not be aroused after all I 
have seen to-day. I went around to see poor Mrs. 
Steele, and found her looking pale and worn, just as 
if she were ready to give up to a good cry if she could 
only take the time from her work and cares. She 
was trying to make a petticoat for her baby out of 
small scraps of flannel. Steele, you know, hangs 
around Doone’s — takes care of horses, and is paid in 
drinks. I noticed that she glanced out of the window 
often, and tliere was a look of dread in her eyes ; and 
the little children all w’ore this look of fear and dread. 
Just think of it, husband — a whole familj^ under this 
bondage of fear, all because Doone sees fit to sell 
rum! Mrs. Steele is a member of our church, too; 
and how does the church help her in the trial? 

“ Then I went over to Matt Judkins's cabin. He is 
almost bedridden now, but he manages to hobble over 
to Doone’s once a day after his drink, and his poor 
daughter, Celia, is a martyr, if there ever was one on 
this eai’th. And when for w^eeks he is tied to his bed 
he calls fcr his liquor and makes such a dreadful time 
if she tries to put him off. And the worst of it is 
she has to give it to him — think of it ! — give it to him 


LEADERS FOR THE WAR. 


89 


with her own hands, because the doctor says that it 
will never do to break him off suddenly. And Celia 
Judkins is a member of our church ; and what are the 
church-members doing to try and lift her burden ? 

“And there’s Deacon Durand’s home, tliat always 
seemed to me what the hymn says, ‘like a little 
heaven below.’ Why, it looks now as if it would 
know the worst kind of trouble, for I’ve heard that 
their son Calvin has been discharged from his uncle’s 
store down in ISTew York for fast living. There was 
something wrong about the accounts. The deacon’s 
brother’s wife says it all comes from wine suppers. 
What are we coming to when the rum curse visits the 
homes of those set apart to protect the interests of the 
Church of God?” 

Deacon Marvin and his newly roused wife day by 
day talked over the state of affairs in Masson, and 
never a man, woman, or child crossed their threshold 
but in one form or another heard something that sent 
them away thinking, if not convinced, with regard to 
the power which was cursing Masson. 

But Masson had for so long been settled to the en- 
joyment of its quiet that it would require something 
like a social earthquake to make it active again. It 
was not, perhaps, very unlike other towns of its age, 
which, having had its birth in the days of the Puri- 
tans, seemed satisfied that the record of its past should 


90 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


excuse it from tlie duty of making a great record for 
tlie future. . . 

Masson, it is needless to sa}^, had set its standards. 
The pastor of its first and most infiuential church, who 
had been dead for years, was, when living, the ac- 
knowledged standard for the morals, and even the 
manners, of Masson, and during a ministry of twenty- 
five years the town had learned so perfectly his ways 
and had become so thoroughly imbued with his ideas 
that ‘‘Father Peters,” as he was called, seemed law- 
giver, confessor, and higliest living authority to all 
who loved heroes and were content with the bondage 
which a local tradition often enforces. 

When at last this standard-bearer was called to give 
an account of his priestly reign, and a new head was 
called to the Church militant of Masson, Father 
Peters was still its standard, being quoted, in season 
and out of season, at the presentation of all problems 
upon all subjects relating to both the spiritual and 
temporal welfare of the town. 

Father Peters had been accustomed to refresh the 
inner man by the mild use of beverages which, taken 
in larger allowance's, must have prevented him from 
properly performing the duties of his ofiice. He took 
his social glass and he took his private toddy, the lat- 
ter for the sole purpose, as he convinced himself, of 
aiding him in the study. Masson had considered Fa- 


LEADERS FOR THE WAR. 


91 


tlier Peters an authority upon a subject that had not 
before the time of my story risen to such an impor- 
tance that it had become a question for the Church to 
press home upon its conscience ; and when the new 
minister was called of course no one required of him 
a statement with regard to his particular belief upon 
the duty of man to man with reference to tem- 
perance. 

There were villages and towns and cities not far dis- 
tant from Masson tliat were beginning to awaken to the 
sound of the temperance call ; but this old tradition- 
bound place was deaf to it as a whole. It needed 
something more than an echo to force it to bestir it- 
self to meet the demands of a progressive age. 

It is needless to say that whoever should be brave 
enough to stand forth to proclaim war against the 
rum king in this old town must prepare himself to 
accept, in a sense, martyrdom. Deacon Marvin had 
been called to such a stand by a small voice speaking 
to his inmost soul. 

He did not at first share his secret with his wife, 
for he was long in a state of bewilderment with regard 
to his own fitness and to methods, but one Sunday, 
just at twilight, before the center-table lamp was 
lighted and the fire upon the sitting-room hearth 
sent out a pleasant glow at a time when next to no 
fire was needed, the deacon turned to his wife and 


92 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


asked, in a tone whicli was worthy of his wooing 
days : 

Polly, do you think you could have the strength 
to stand with me at the front of the battle for tem- 
perance in Masson ? ” 

And the wife answered, with an expression upon 
her face that might have done credit to an enlisting 
soldier : 

‘‘ Deacon, I am ready to lend my hand, to give my 
life, I believe, to the work.” 

‘‘ Bless the Lord, Polly ! ” cried the strong, true, 
tender husband of many years. 

Then there was a long silence in the room where 
these two had through 

“ Days of sorrow and of mirtli, 

Through days of death and days of birth,” 

been loving and faithful and true to their marriage 
vows ; the deacon at last said : 

‘‘I shouldn’t dare think of giving myself to this, 
Polly, if I hadn’t thought it all over again and again 
and tried to count the cost and studied methods, and, 
above all, dear wife, asked for help to be tender and 
pitiful, as the Lord would have me. There is one 
mistake which, it seems to me, temperance workers 
are liable to make, and that is, they often hate men 
instead of things. Perhaps it is the most difficult 


LEADERS FOR THE WAR. 


93 


tiling in the world to hate sin and at the same time 
love the sinner ; but if we are not able to do this we 
are not ready to become temperance apostles. Do 
you think, Polly, that you could hate Doone’s work 
and yet feel kindly to Doone himself ? ’’ 

A bright flush came to the face of the newly en- 
listed soldier, and as she bowed her head she raised 
her heart in a prayer for help that she might not hate 
the man who was doing such wholesale service against 
the suffering homes. At last she raised her honest 
eyes to meet the waiting ones of her husband, and 
answered : 

“I hope to be able to feel right about it by and 
by ; but to-night, deacon, I am too full of the trouble I 
have seen, too full.’’ 


94 


ALONG THE ANATA W. 


CHAPTER YIIL 

DP:AC0N MARVIN SPEAKS IN MEETING. 

The next evening Deacon Marvin said to liis wife, 
“ I am going over to the parsonage to liave a little 
talk with our minister about this thing.” 

Going to talk with Dr. Dene ? ” asked Mrs. Mar- 
vin, wdth much surprise. 

And why not, Polly ? Dr. Dene is our spiritual 
guide, and should lead us on to battle for the 
Lord ! ” 

The good wife coughed nervously. Tlien she went 
on knitting rapidly, so that her lingers galloped past 
the seam, and she had gone on for a whole round be- 
fore she was conscious of her mistake. 

‘‘ Do you think Dr. Dene will oppose the idea ? ” 
her husband asked, just as she turned into the seam 
needle again. 

“ Well, really, if I didn’t miss that seam ! ” the knit- 
ter Avas saying, but her manner showed that her knit- 
ting wits were still wandering and that her thoughts 
W’ere upon the proposed new movement. 

“ Do I thiidv he will oppose it ? Ho, I don’t think 


DEA COE MA R VIN SPEA KS IN MEETING. 95 

that ; not that, exactly, but he’ll do no fighting ; that 
I’m sure of ! ” 

Now, Polly’s instincts had been to the deacon a 
kind of prophecy always, and he had learned by ex- 
perience that his own best judgments had often been 
only foolishness beside them ; but, nevertheless, he 
put on his Sunday clothes and started for the parson- 
age. lie felt a trembling about tlie knees as he turned 
into the well-kept walk that led a winding, flower- 
bordered way to the minister’s door ; for in his inmost 
soul he knew that he was not expecting sympathy or 
a promise of co-operation in the projected struggle 
against the rum-power; he was only conscious that 
he had been commissioned by an authority out of 
himself to speak to this leader in Israel. He had pre- 
pared no speech, he had trusted to the help that might 
come with the lioui*. 

U])on the front piazza, as he went near, he saw the 
ministci*, his wife, and their only son, a youth ready 
to enter college. As the members of the family rose 
to greet him the deacon could hardly keep the tears 
from coming as he remembered how in his own home 
there had once been a son like this one, handsome and 
tall, and the pride of himself and Polly, whom death 
had claimed at a time when it seemed hardest to lose 
him. 

Put he did not suffer this memory to unman him 


96 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


or make him forget that he had come upon the Lord’s 
errand to this home where the son had been left to his 
parents ; and after a few words upon the weather and 
the crops he informed his pastor that he should like a 
few private words with him. 

Dr. Dene rose in his stately way and led the way 
into the study. He offered him a seat opposite the 
portrait of Father Peters. In the silence that followed 
he looked into the benevolent face of the picture and 
could hear the calm voice, he imagined, of the pastor 
of the years gone by as he bade him go forth and be 
happy with his new-found love for his Lord. That 
was so long ago, wdien, as he believed, he gave him- 
self to Christ. The question forced itself upon him 
at this later evening hour, “ Had I really given my- 
self to the Highest at that time ? ” 

But he had no time then for retrospection, and, 
turning to the waiting minister, he told his errand, 
and earnestly and simply stated his convictions with 
regard to the temperance work in Masson. 

‘‘ It is for the honor of the Church, and to deliver 
the oppressed, many of whom belong to its fold,” the 
enthusiastic deacon ended. 

But ere he had finished speaking he felt that his 
wife’s prophec}^ was about to be fulfilled, as he saw a 
significant expression slowly but steadily gain upon 
the face of Dr. Dene. 


DEACON MARVIN SPEAKS IN MEETING. 


97 


“ Tin’s is sometliing,” the reverend gentleman re- 
plied, wliich is not reserved for my authority or de- 
cision ; tliere are so many grades of opinion — and, I 
might properly add, of feeling — upon the subject of 
temperance that it would bo extremely unwise for mo 
to set up my especial opinion as a standard for the 
Church. However, I have no objection to your 
views, and if you see lit to state them as you de- 
clare yon ought I will give you liberty at the next 
prayer-meeting.” 

As the minister bowed his deacon out of his study 
the old relation between them was no more ; for each 
had been revealed to the other in a new light. Dea- 
con Marvin gave a parting glance at the portrait of 
Father Peters as he said within himself, “ I go forth 
this time to work for the Highest.” 

As Dejicon Marvin left the minister’s yard that 
evening he felt a certain lieart-sinking that he would 
not have been willing that Polly should know of, since 
she had began to look to him as a captain in the cause 
for which she had so recently enlisted as a soldier. 

‘‘ I must keep up a good heart before her,” he 
whispered as he turned into the home street ; ‘‘ and, 
after all,” he added, ‘4f I have Polly’s sympathy I 
can do without that of Masson.” 

His wife was watching for him, and when she heard 
' his firm tread as he came up the walk she felt that 
7 


98 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


however lie might have been disappointed in liis hope 
of the minister’s help he had not lost his own en- 
thusiasm or courage ; she had not been studying her 
husband for the long years to no purpose. She was 
never surprised, as some women are, by their husbands’ 
moods. She read in his step when he was despondent 
or joyous, and on this evening she thought she had 
never heard a more hopeful step in his coming. 

As Beacon Marvin and his wife entered the lecture- 
room of the church on the next prayer-meeting even- 
ing there was a perceptible flatter among the un- 
usually large audience, for a* bird had carried the 
news of the deacon’s purpose to make a temperance 
speech. There was expectancy and a little impatience 
also in the manner of the worshipers through the 
long prayers and dragging tunes of the hymns, until 
at last the deacon rose and turned to face the gathered 
company. 

“ I stand before you to-night,” he began, “ to make 
a confession and also a promise ; and God help me in 
both, so that at the last, when I am called to give an 
account of my service and influence in the church at 
Masson, I may not prove that I have perjured 
myself.” 

The deacon then began in earnest, and as he pro- 
ceeded he grew in eloquence. He pictured the awful 
ruin that had been wrought in the town through 


DEA CON MARVIN SPEAKS IN MEETING. 


99 


the rum traffic, warned them of the danger to other 
homes, and pleaded in the name of Christ and of sufi'er- 
ing humanity for the cause of temperance ; told them 
of the call which was gathering armies throughout the 
land to march against the opposing hosts of rum ; asked 
them to decide whether they would sleep on through 
all the noise of battle and be counted cowards in the 
end, and closed by repeating two verses of a favorite 
poem that he had before reserved for Polly’s ears 
alone : 

“ The storm-bell rings, the trumpet blows; 

I know the word and countersign ; 

Wherever Freedom’s vanguard goes, 

Where stand or fall her friends or foes, 

I know the place that should be mine. 

“Shamed be the hands that idly fold. 

And lips that woo the reed’s accord, 

When laggard time the hour has tolled 
For true with false and new with old 
To fight the battles of the Lord.” 

There was a stillness in the prayer-room unknown 
to it before during this recital, and when the deacon 
sat down it was unbroken. No one followed in song, 
prayer, or remark, and there seemed not a movement 
in the room unless it was that of Polly’s hand as 
under the cover of the best cashmere shawl it sought 
that of the deacon to press it as a sign of sympathy 
and approval. 


100 


ALONG TEE ANA TAW. 


The silence was growing oppressive, when Dr. Dene 
broke it by saying as he rose and extended Ids hands, 
‘‘Deceive the benediction.” 

The meeting closed. The people went their ways to 
discuss the evening’s event, a few to laugh at Dea- 
con Marvin’s “ fanaticism,” many to wonder wliat 
had started his new idea with regard to tlie mooted 
and unpopular subject, and only a very few to hope 
and pray for the gathering of the army that should 
march against the forces of rum. 

During the week that followed there was an nnnsual 
excitement in Masson, especially at the Doone quarter. 
There the deacon’s prayer- meeting speech, with many 
additions and subtractions, as the taste of those who 
related it suggested, was told again and again. 

The minister’s neutral position with regard to the 
temperance question was duly commented upon, and 
ho rose in the estimation of the set that drank and 
profaned the name of the One to whom the Dev. 
Abijali Dene had professed to give his whole powers 
of service. 

“ He’s the right kind of a preacher ! ” “ He attends 
to gospel preaching and lets other people’s affairs, 
that don’t belong to him, alone.” These and other 
similar remarks might have been heard among those 
who needed especially the whole Gospel given them. 
A knowledge of what had taken place at the prayer- 


DEACON MARVIN SPEAKS IN MEETING. 


101 


meeting came to the ears of those who in poverty-- 
stricken homes were wrestling with wrongs that had 
been entailed by the curse of intemperance. Prayer 
went np from afflicted souls, it is true, that help might 
come through the “coming army” of which Deacon 
IMarvin had spoken ; yet few perhaps prayed with a 
great amount of faith, their experience had taught 
them so long to hope for nothing in the way of deliv- 
erance from their trials and sorrows. 

“It will he a hand-to-hand light, deacon,” said his 
wife, as they walked home after the meeting ; “ and did 
you notice,” she continued, “that no one gave you 
even a hand-shake ? ” 

“ Yes, I did, Polly,” the husband answered, and his 
tone was firm and even triumphant. “I expect no 
help at the start ; I shall ask for none. ‘ If the Lord be 
for us, who can be against us ? ’ There can be nothing 
to fear, wife, nothing at all. ” 

The next Sunday the notice was given from the 
pulpit that there would be a temperance meeting at a 
school-house in the town. The minister read the sig- 
natui'e of Deacon Marvin., attached to the call, and 
made no comment upon it. So the leaven through 
the influence of two brave, willing souls was laid to 
work. 


102 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


CHAPTER IX. 

LUKEWARM ADHERENTS. 

The inontli passed, and the spring again by a thou- 
sand voices heralded summer. The Anataw went 
peacefully on its way, as if its wrathful forces had 
never risen to wreck the lives of those who had con- 
fided so much to its keeping. A substantial bridge 
had taken the place of the first one, and the builder 
declared ‘‘ it could stand any overflow that the Anataw 
could get up.” 

The home above the ferry was beautiful in spite of 
the many evidences of decay which the house itself 
presented, for the grass and the trees and the flowers 
held their own under the changing, glorious sky. 

Philip came down from the Waite farm each night, 
and on Saturda^^s, when he brought his week’s wages 
and laid them before his mother, he felt a manly pride 
and a new hope that he should be able after a few more 
years to begin the home improvements. Indeed, he 
had already begun them by certain repairs, inexpen- 
sive, it is true, but going far toward giving a promise 
of future substantial improvements. 


LUKEWARM ADHERENTS. 


103 


Annie, as she grew taller, became more and more 
attractive, and Philip did not fail to notice it, and to in- 
dulge in his boy’s dream of making a queen ” of her. 
To have a beautiful woman in the family again, and to 
have a fitting home for this queen sister — this seemed 
then sufficient for a life purpose to one of Ids ardent 
nature. He began to talk of this purpose daily with 
his sister, who grew to realize her power over her 
brother and to contemplate her own loveliness. 

Philip was no longer a boy in years, and certainly 
his experience and nature gave him a standing outside 
of boyhood. He was possessed of sufficient judgment 
to discern weakness or strength of character, and to 
understand also that a lovely face and a queenly form 
do not always indicate loveliness of mind and heart ; 
but the masculine mind, in youth as in age, sometimes 
will not use its quick discernment and ready judgment 
with regard to the other sex. It so enthrones woman 
that it is only too happy to allow itself to presuppose 
goodness through loveliness. All women seemed good 
to Philip, if not all beautiful. His mother’s charac- 
ter, ennobled through love and sacrifice, was respon- 
sible for this. 

His father was becoming more and more useless to 
the family as a help, and month by month was grow- 
ing in degradation. As his drinking habits grew 
he became sullen, and was often cruel in his home. 


104 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


llis endless nrgings witli regard to tlie homestead 
property made the life of Mrs. Mayne a torture, for 
she would not consent to part with it until, as she 
promised lier father, “ she must do so to keep the life 
of lier family.” 

For a long time Martin Doono had coveted the lot 
in which the hickory -tree stood; one reason for his 
wanting to buy it was that in adding acre to acre to 
his possessions he had bought the lot adjoining it; 
and this desire may have accounted for the late excess- 
ive drinking of Thomas Mayne. For some months 
the poor inebriate had seemed to have the liberty of 
the store. Martin had his plan ; he did not care to be 
underhand in his business movements, but if straight- 
forward means could not be used, why, then there was 
only the opposite course left to him, he argued. 
Thomas went each day regularly over to Doone’s, for 
Doone employed him upon odd jobs and gave him 
work that he could not have hired a steady worker to 
do. The poor man wxas such a slave to his appetite 
that he was willing to work at any thing that would 
insure him his drink. Being also quick and bright 
and ingenious, he was of great nse to the rum-seller 
until the liquor began to take effect ; then Doone sent 
him off from the premises or allowed him to sleep 
over in his barn until he was partially sobered. 

Mrs. Mayne was deceived by this ostensible em- 


LUKRWARM ADHERENTS. 


105 


ployment, and tliongli loathing Doone, and even the 
groceries that came from his store, she used the latter 
for her children’s sake, believing that her husband 
earned them, as he certainly did; but, alas! there 
was the indebtedness for rum, of which she was igno- 
rant. 

Thomas Mayne had for a year- been making his 
daily journeys to and from Doone’s, when one day 
he laid before his wife the astounding 2)iece of news 
that he was indebted to Doone more than one hun- 
dred dollars for groceries. 

But, Thomas,” the poor woman urged, “you have 
been working for Doone. What has become of all 
the money ? ” 

She knew where it had all gone, and for what, be- 
fore she had asked the cpiestion. She could get no 
clearer knowledge with regard to the robbery from 
questioning her husband. She determined to face the 
robber himself ; and that very evening she took her 
way across the Anataw over to the center of the town, 
and found herself at the Doone place just as the pro- 
prietor was crossing the yard from his house, where 
he had been to his supper, to his store. 

Mrs. Mayne went into the store and stood face to 
face to the man who had robbed her of her home 
joys. Doone was not himself; the “set” who were 
waiting for developments did not prove a bulwark of 


tm 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


strength to lihii. Ho trembled visibly as Mrs. Mayne 
stated her errand to him. 

lie made a desperate effort to meet the emergency 
by putting on an air of bravado ; he partially suc- 
ceeded in showing the ‘‘ set ” that he was equal to 
the occasion. 

“ Your husband has a bill here, yes, madam. I’m 
sorry that I had to push matters, but I’ve waited a 
good many months now. I couldn’t bo hard on a 
poor man ; that never could be said of me, Mrs. 
Mayne.” 

“But where is the money that my husband has 
earned? ” asked the injured wife. 

“Your husband ” — and Martin Doone’s voice sank 
to a whisper — “your husband, my good woman, 
would have his drink ; he is no man to be denied it — 
you know that; and a man who is a hard drinker, 
who does not control himself, is not a very valuable 
hand at work ; you ought to know that,” he said, 
and added, while the listening wife stood strengthless 
and despairing, “It is bad business, Mrs. Mayne, 
but we’ll try to fix it up between us. I need a little 
more land, and you can make it straight by deeding 
me the south lot.” 

Mrs. Mayne, to save herself from a desperate act 
which would have meant a tragedy, abruptly turned 
and left the store, never again to enter it. 


LUKEWARM ADHERENTS. 


107 


She took Philip as counsel in her extremitj. She 
told him every word of the I’uni-seller, and he, jastlj 
indignant, would have fought the man who had 
helped to ruin his father’s life and had made his 
mother a sorrowful woman ; but as he grew quiet and 
thought over the matter he besran to aixree with his 
mother’s opinion, that as the debt was for the food 
that had been used in the familjq although the rum- 
seller had been guilty of fraud in the matter, the 
honor of the family of Palcy, if not of Mayne, 
required that the debt be canceled ; and so, thougli it 
occasioned many bitter tears, the old south lot which 
held the hickory-tree was sold to Martin Doone. 

At first the transaction was known only to two or 
three outside of the families chiefly concerned in the 
arrangement, but through Mr. Waite the news be- 
came the property of the. town, for that gentleman 
could not repress his wrath at what lie called the 
“rascality” of Martin Doone. He blazed it far and 
wide, and the circumstances of the case he enlarged 
upon, and temperance peo})lc were obliged to recog- 
nize the truth that they had allowed an upstart to 
take possession of the lands that had belonged to an 
honored descendant of one of Masson’s oldest and 
most aristocratic families. The pill was a bitter one, 
yet they were obliged to take it. The bitterness of the 
potion did not consist in the 'svrong done to the wife 


108 


ALONG THE AN AT AW. 


and children of Thomas Mayne by tlie rum-seller so 
much as in the apparent shaking of the foundation of 
Masson’s society, namely, its traditions, ‘‘ An old 
family beaten by a new one ! ” There was the 
trouble. 

Eut with Deacon Marvin and Ids wife the affair 
proved as fuel to tlieir zeal. 

^‘To think, deacon,” Mrs. Marvin said, ‘‘just to 
tliink of Mary Paley’s being obliged to give up that, 
lot, given to her by her father, tlie lot that liad been in 
the Paley family for yeai’S, and where Mary had ])layed, 
and Pve gathered nuts tliere myself, deacon ! And 
it is so dreadful to think that it has gone for rum, 
really for rum ! It is enough to make Sqidre Paley 
turn in his grave, such doings.” 

Deacon Marvin was rising gradually to the situa- 
tion. lie stood up then, and his wife thought she 
had never seen him look taller. lie began to speak, 
his eyes flashed, and Polly said within herself, “ He 
grows handsomer each year.” 

“Polly,” ho began, “it is a crying shame to Mas- 
s:m, and if this town had lived up to its privileges, or 
rather if the church had done so, it could not have 
happened ; but it has happened, and now we as a 
temperance man and woman are to take our lesson 
and gain our help for the great work from it ; unless 
we use this wrong for good we are unworthy workers. 


LUKEWARM ADHEREXTS. 


109 


1 know you are ready to lielp ; I know you liave 
[dodged yourself, and,” lie added, softly, “I never 
knew you to go against your promise ; but, Polly, we 
want a far sight — a new sight, as it were — for this 
work. Only the Lord will help us to that ; only the 
Lord can give us the far sight that leaders need who 
must not only see the foe in front, like the common 
soldiers, but must discover the inaneuvers of tlie 
enemy in the distance. We are called to special 
service, Polly.” 

The deacon and his wife were self-surrendered, and 
thus were in an attitude to receive light and instruc- 
tion in the path to which they had been called. 

Perhaps, directly as indirectly, this event of the 
selliim of the south lot had a <xreater influence than 
any other in favor of temperance, and this came 
through the conscientious course of Deacon Marvin, 
lie it was that lighted the match to start the fires of 
indignation, first with Mr. ^yaite, and tlirongh him 
to influence the zeal of true temperance people. 

Mr. Waite had before this affair held very conser- 
vative opinions with regard to the curse of rum in 
common with Masson, and even after the selling of 
the south lot, although ho denounced the rum-seller, 
ho was not prepared to do open, honest battle against 
the evil. It was not to be expected, perhaps ; full- 
fledged reformers do not often astonish the faithful ; 


110 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


the training is a long one, and the maturing processes 
are slow and imperceptible ; and, first of all, Mr. 
AYaite lacked the perfect self-surrender which in our 
theories and purposes for reform we so often over- 
look, but which is as necessary to the growing power 
of a soul as is the waiting, willing attitude of nature 
before the high source of its life. As has been stated. 
Deacon Marvin and his wife possessed this first req- 
uisite for reformers. 

“It is an outrage upon decency,” Mr. Waite de- 
clared, after he had learned of Philip the truth 
with regard to the affair. “This work ought to be 
stopped. Mind you, there will be a revolution for 
temperance before a great many years have passed. 
I don’t expect to see it in my day, but you will, my 
boy,” he said to Philip. “By the way,” he con- 
tinued, “I am afraid Deacon Marvin is going a little 
too fast, for his own good and for the good of the 
cause. He is a good man, and I think there never 
was a truer, but I wish some one would give him a 
word of caution, just to steady him a little and save 
him from the wrath of such as Doone.” 

“ Such as Doone ! ” murmured Philip. “ Deacon 
Marvin would scorn the idea of fearing the wrath of 
one like Doone. I think he fears nothing, for I 
heard him say — and I wish you could have seen him 
as he said it — I heard him say at the temperance 


LUKEWARM ADHERENTS. 


Ill 


meeting over at the scliool-liouse that a cause which 
did not demand great sacrifices of its friends could 
not hold vital interests for the world. I think, sir, 
that Deacon Marvin has counted upon suffering and 
trial for the cause, and I think he will never lay down 
the work that he has taken up — never, sir, so long as 
he lives ! ’’ 

The man looked at the glowing eyes of the youth 
before him, and listened to his words not without a 
feeling of reproach at his own half-comprehension of 
the demands of service for this new cause. “ But 
then,” he whispered to his conscience, he has cause 
for enthusiasm upon a subject that will touch his own 
home-life. I suppose I should feel the same if it had 
ever touched my home interests. But he is a bi*ave 
one ; if he could only have a chance what a mark he 
would make in the world ! ” 

While this flashed across the mind of Mr. Waite 
Philip wondered why one who was so kind and gen- 
erous, and who declared that he desired the overthrow 
of the rum-power in Masson, should hesitate to give 
liimself to sacrifice or to actual battle against the aw- 
ful curse, and this, too, after he had pledged himself 
to a wider way of living. Much as he admired the 
man who had shown him so much kindness, he could 
not help regarding him, in his innermost soul, as but 
a pigmy beside the great heart which had laid all upon 


112 


AL ONG THE ANA TA W. 


tlie altar for the temperance cause. Deacon Marvin 
had never helped in the struggle for the needs of the 
body, but he liad shown him the stores for soul sup- 
ply and the path that opened toward them. The way 
might be a long one — it surely could not be an easy 
one — but in the end it would prove a safe one. Dea- 
con Marvin, having been the instrument toward light- 
ing the fires of a young, earnest soul like that of 
Philip Mayne, had won a crown-jewel for his eternal 
reward ; but could he have been conscious of the far- 
reaching results of this winning he would have 
counted it as only the promise of the first prize in a 
life-long series of victories. True reformers have their 
eyes trained to discern the farthest goal, and nothing 
short of last results are worthy their thought of a 
cause. 

Philip had found opportunities for talks with Jessie 
Mard upon the temperance revival, which was be- 
coming each month more pronounced in character. 
Edith was silent as the two talked, and she wondered 
within herself how two. such persons, who could find 
fo much in other subjects to interest them, could be 
moved to so much enthusiasm upon a subject that 
called out so much of sadness and so much that re- 
lated to the disgusting habits of a low class. 

Philip had himself attended the temperance meet- 
ing, and he longed to have Mr. Waite and Edith and 


LUKEWARM ADHERENTS. 


113 


Jessie attend, for as yet Deacon Marvin had found 
his audience composed, not of tlie “higlier” class in 
Masson, but of those who, having been scathed by 
the fires of the liquor curse, had with this “higher” 
class lost caste, in a sense. 

Deacon Marvin felt that he needed, for certain 
reasons, the prestige of this higher class. Could he 
get it ? If he did, some one among this class must 
come out, as had Polly and himself, caring for noth- 
ing so that they followed the bidding of their Lord, 
wdio would have all men come to the knowledge of 
the truth. 

“ I feel that I must go up to those temperance 
meetings,” Jessie said to Philip one evening as, in the 
late autumn, she walked with him as far as the oak- 
tree on the avenue that led to the main road. 

“ And why do you not go ? ” her companion ques- 
tioned, as he bent an inquiring gaze on the expressive 
face. 

“ I think,” she answered, hesitatingly, “ that Mr. 
M^aite is opposed to our going — Edith and myself. 
In fact, I know he is, for I have heard him say that 
no child of his should ever speak upon any subject in 
public, and that he was not willing that his daughter 
should be present where women ranted. And you 
know, Philip, women do speak at the temperance 

meetings: and I am sure neither Mr. Waite nor his 
8 


114 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


daughter would he willing that I should attend. I 
am not expected to do or to be what Edith must not, 
or cannot. I am hound to these friends by my prom- 
ise and through their kindness, hut O, I long to go to 
these meetings ! I long to do and to be for the cause. 
I am sure my mother meant bravery for this cause 
when she charged me ‘ to be brave and to fight for 
the riglit.’ What shall I do ? How shall I know 
what is right ? ’’ 

If pity is akin to love, then in that moment, as the 
girl lifted her pleading eyes to Philip’s, his heart 
was not safe against the power of the little god whose 
ways of dealing with hearts are so mysterious ; but the 
youth, whatever the influence upon him might have 
been, ^vas only conscious of a deep sympathy for the 
poor girl whose early joy had been crushed out by 
the rum demon. 


ONE OF THE MEETINGS. 


115 


CHAPTER X. 

ONE OF THE MEETINGS. 

Duking his walk toward his home, after he had 
parted from Jessie, Philip thought much of her 
words, and he began to question, as he considered 
them, whether he himself was not in a kind of bond- 
age to Mr. Waite in respect to the temperance cause; 
he felt that his voice was needed at the temperance 
meetings, that Deacon Marvin would be grateful to 
even him for help in the great work. He felt sure 
that if he were working for Deacon Marvin he should 
not hesitate about offering a word publicly for tem- 
perance. “ Mr. Waite believes in quiet, natural ways 
of bringing about victories for the cause,” he said to 
himself ; ‘‘ and yet,” he added, “ he was very indig- 
nant about Doone’s getting our land, and would have 
had him prosecuted for fraud. What a power he 
would be if he were to give himself up to the work 
as Deacon Marvin has ! ” 

The months j)assed and the temperance cause did 
not gain adherents fast, although Deacon Marvin and 
his wife still kept their vows of loyalty to it, and still 


116 


ALONG TBE ANA f AW. 


hoped to gather an army of soldiers worthy to fight 
under its banner. Philip attended the meetings reg- 
ularly, and though he longed to talk about them to 
Mr. Waite he could not decide that the time had 
come when he should do so ; but Jessie questioned 
Jiiin always after he had attended, wishing to know 
who liad spoken and what evidence there' was of ad- 
vance in the cause. 

One evening Jessie followed Mr. Waite as he went 
for a stroll around the yard, and as she came up with 
him she said : 

“ I have something to say to you to-night ; I have 
Avanted to say it for a long time; I think perhaps 
you may not like what I may tell you, but I know 
you will have patience with me.’’ 

She paused then as if she would gain courage to go 
on, and at last, raising her eyes to meet those of her 
benefactor, she said : 

“ You know my history ; you know what my father 
once was ; you know — for I liave heard you say that 
my mother was once the pride of the town — ^^"ou know 
wliat they both became, what they both suffered.” 

Here she covered her face with her hands and 
sobbed like a child. Mr. Waite looked helplessly on, 
and wondered what the poor girl had to reveal. 
Leaning against the old tree, he stood almost in 
despair as he began to fear that he w^as about to lose 


ONE OF THE MEETINGS. 


117 


the treasure that had brightened his home so many 
months, and had blessed his dear Editli through a 
delightful companionship. She raised her head at 
last, and her voice became steady as she told Mr. 
Waite what was on her mind with regard to the tem- 
perance work. 

‘‘I feel that my place is there, sir. My mother 
would have me be faithful. Sometimes in the night 
I seem to hear her voice whispering to me, asking me 
if I have kept my promise given to her to be brave 
and fight for the right. I have never told you, sir, 
that she called me to her bed at the very last moment 
before I went out, and asked me to promise this. I 
know how you feel with regard to Edith’s going to 
such meetings, where the women speak ; and I know 
that you are not in favor of the manner Deacon Mar- 
vin has of carrying on the work. You would not be 
wdlling to have me go where you would not consent 
to have your own child go, and I want to say, deal*, 
kind friend, that I cannot keep away from these 
meetings. I ought not to ; and if you disapprove of 
it I must leave you, although it seems as if it would 
break my heart.” 

Mr. Waite had met a trial-hour. How should he 
decide the fate of his own child? And how pro- 
nounce upon the decision of the orphan girl? 

He spoke ; at first his tones were unsteady and un- 


118 


ALONG THE ANATAW, 


natural, but at last lie regained liis composure and 
said, in liis own kind way : 

I have my doubts and my prejudices, too, it must 
be owned, with regard to methods up at these meet- 
ings ; but I should be a tyrant, and a very ungrateful 
man, to say the least, if I allowed my daughter’s 
companion and the blessing of our home to sacrifice 
her most sacred desires to them. ]^o ; you shall go 
to the temperance meetings if you will; but don't 
rant — no, I will not say that ; I know you will do 
nothing as I know some of those women do, for 
you are not like them. I can trust you. But, if 
I might finish in a softer way than I began to express 
it, my request is that you will not speak in meeting 
until you feel that you must.” 

I promise,” answered the relieved girl — “ promise 
to keep silent until I hear the ‘Woe is me if I speak 
not.’ ” 

The next time Philip went up to the temperance 
meeting he was accompanied by Jessie and Edith. 
There were only about twelve persons present be- 
sides the young people from the Waite farm — a 
discouraging number, it might seem ; but sonfe- 
how Deacon Marvin was not inclined to regard it 
in that light. He came in, followed by his wife, and 
his step was so elastic and his face so illumined that 
an observer might imagine he had the promise of 


ONE OF THE MEETINGS. 


119 


a victory for tlie loved cause. And tins was ex- 
actly the truth, for during the day he had been 
blessed with the joyful news that one who had long 
been under the liquor bondage was free at last, 
free by his purpose under God to drink no more of 
Doone’s liquor. 

In the course of the meeting this poor man who 
had been a sot so long rose and began to speak. On 
this night he was in his right mind, but one could 
not help feeling that the mind had been the dwelling- 
place of many devils which had torn and tormented it. 

“ I am trying to do better,” he began ; it can’t be 
an easy thing, this turning when you’re no longer a 
young, strong man ; habits are awful chains some- 
times. They’re chains to bind a feller. Then there’s 
the ones you used to drink with ; they’re calling to 
yer to come again, and if you manage ter hold on and 
think you’re all light unto death the burning thirst 
will come and take hold, and there’ll seem ter be no 
help. And then who cares whether yer hold on or 
not ? 

‘‘ It seems sometimes as if nobody cared, and I want 
to say that just here is one of the poor drinker’s hard- 
est trials, when he is sick in body and soul, and the 
priest and the Levite jDass by on the other side. But, 
as I said, I’m trying; it may be that I sha’n’t hold 
out. God only knows that. But, Deacon Marvin, 


120 


ALONG THE ANA TA W. 


I’ve made up my mind to try till I give up my breath, 
and I want ter tell you I’ll bless you till I die for 
what you’ve done for me.” 

Here the man, Matt Dade, sat down. Pliilip glanced 
toward Jessie, and saw that her eyes were full of 
tears and tliat her face wore an expression of pity 
for the man who was having a haiid-to-hand light 
against the foe that had threatened him so long. 

Mrs. Marvin said a few simple, quiet words of help 
and encouragement, and those who were most preju- 
diced against the public speaking of her sex could 
have observed nothing in her manner that would offend 
their nicest sense of womanly softness and reserve. 

There were other women wlio talked, not like the 
deacon’s wife, with fitting tones and words; their 
jerky, ungrammatical sentences would not have borne 
the tests of the smallest amount of cultured criticism, 
perhaps ; but they were in earnest ; and when in sight 
of land a noble ship is being wrecked do the refined 
and cultured who meet with the rude and uncultured 
upon the common beach feel disgust for those who 
call out for help, for those who are in danger of per- 
ishing, though the manner may be uncouth and the 
words without polish ? 

Edith could not conceal her distaste for such 
speech-making of women. She loved beautiful sights, 
and could not understand why haggard women should 


ONE OF THE MEETINGS. 


121 


bo allowed to flaunt tlieir woe before bappj people. 
If she had thought it w’orth while to advise with re- 
gard to the disposal of such miserable women she 
would have thought it best to advocate an institution 
for them — an isolated place which should not be ex- 
actly a prison, but at the same time should have its 
laws rei^iilatinor the freedom of such as she saw before 
her Avith the trouble-marks upon their faces. Pict- 
ures of faces like some of the madonnas, copies of 
the great masters that she had seen, were so very 
attractive under their shadow of suffering, she wanted 
all women’s martyr-faces to look like those. She had 
yet to learn that this nineteenth century, suffering 
through entailment of centuries of suffering, leaves 
deeper scars, it may be, than the sorrows of the early 
days. 

Deacon Marvin in a last prayer seemed to bear the 
case of the poor sot who had declared his intention of 
trying to reform into the very presence of the great 
Deliverer, so fervent was his petition and so close did 
his own soul seem to lie to the great heart of the 
mighty One. 

As the three young people walked home in the 
moonlight Edith clung to Jessie and whispered : 

“ How dreadful they all were — all but the deacon 
and his wife. Matt Dade appeared crazy. Of course 
there cannot be the least use in his trying ; and even 


122 


ALOITG THE ANATAW. 


if lie should leave off now, why, all the mischief is 
done. His wife was killed by his unkindness and his, 
children are all dead through his neglect.” 

‘‘ O, Edith,” exclaimed Jessie, don’t say that ! 
There is use, there must be, until the very last mo- 
ment of one’s life ! O, I cannot bear the thought that 
this may not be true of any living being ! ” 

Philip knew what was in her heart as she uttered 
her pleading words. She was indeed thinking, as he 
supposed,' of her own father and of his last hours of 
agony, hoping that, when the waters were rushing 
over him and he was facing the awful realities of an- 
other life, the gracious Father might in his infinite 
mercy have extended a forgiveness to him. 

Philip was very thoughtful, for the impression 
made upon him by the speech of the man who had 
long been a boon companion of his own father at 
Doone’s was a powerful one. He reasoned, “ If Matt 
Dade can be reclaimed, why cannot my father ? ” All 
the way home that night he thought of it ; and after 
he had left the young ladies at Mr. Waite’s he felt in 
a desperate mood on account of the way his father 
was going on, and no prospect of help for him, even 
when the friends of temperance had leagued them- 
selves against the rum curse. 

When he arrived at his home he found his mother 
standing by the gate watching for some one. 


ONE OF THE MEETINGS. 


123 


‘‘ Mother,’’ he asked, as he came up to her, “ were 
you troubled about me ? The meeting lield late to- 
night. There was a new speaker; who do you think 
spoke, mother ? Matt Dade stood u]) like a man, and 
O, mother, it seemed so very wonderful ! He is go- 
ing to try to leave off his drinking. It is tlirongh the 
influence of Deacon Marvin, mother, and I have been 
thinking all the way home about father.” 

Philip had finished pronouncing the name “ father ” 
when the mother laid lier hand gently upon his arm 
and whispered, Hush ! he is coming.” With mut- 
tered oaths the reeling form approached, and the wife 
and son took each an arm and steadied him into the 
house, giving gentle words in return for curses. 


124 


AL ONO THE ANA TA W. 


CHAPTEE XL 

ON THE EVE OF A REVOLUTION. 

Where was tlie man who sliould bo raised up that 
was to be sufficient to save his father ? Tliis cpiestion 
haunted Philip even in his dreams ; and in tlie morn- 
ing he started upon his way up to the farm, still revolv- 
ing the subject in his mind. 

At breakfast Mr. Waite questioned Jessie and 
Edith with regard to the meeting, and when Jessie told 
of Matt Dade’s talk he was inclined at first to regard 
it as a good joke, for Matt Dade had gained the rep- 
utation of being the sot of the town ; but as Jessie 
proceeded in relating the words, in her forcible, ear- 
nest way, he grew thoughtful and said : 

‘‘Well, it wdll be a great thing, to be sure, if Matt 
Dade leaves oil drinking ; but it is not pleasant to 
think that none of his family are left to enjoy the 
sight of the sober Matt Dade.” 

“ Perhaps,” Jessie replied, in a low tone, “ they will 
know it somehow and somewhere. But I suppose 
that, no matter whether a person can undo his past 
wrongs and mistakes, he must come when he is 


ON THE EVE OF A REVOLUTION. 


125 


called by duty, even though it be at the eleventh 
hour.’’ 

Mr. Waite did not answer, but to the end of the 
breakfast-hour he wore an abstracted manner which 
puzzled his wife, alert as she was, and caused Edith 
to wonder what had come over her father. 

When he joined Philip at one of the seed-houses 
he noticed that the youthful face held an expression 
of care and that he spoke very little. He began to 
suspect that what he noticed was the result of the 
temperance meeting, and a kind of impatience took 
possession of him witli regard to the whole affair. 
He wanted the liquor business stopped in Masson, but 
he could not endure the thought of his own near 
friends being mixed up with sensational affairs. Yet ho 
could not banish from his thoughts what Jessie had 
said of Matt Dade’s new experience, and he found 
himself whispering, ‘‘ Matt Dade trying to turn about 
at his age, with character and money and wife and 
children gone ! ” 

Day after day he pondered all this in his mind, and 
gradually grew to regard the reformation of Matt 
Dade as something worthy of the untiring efforts of 
the deacon and his wife, and to wish that he were 
able to understand the singleness of purpose that led 
them to accept and to follow the work to which they 
had been called. He began also to reconsider the reso- 


126 


ALONG THE ANATAW. ' 


lution that he had made months before with regard 
to enlarging the boundaries of his own character. 
His conscience faintly whispered that he had not been 
quite honest with himself. A conviction grew that 
his moral nature had been sadly dwarfed, and, taking 
account of his mental gain since he had resolved to 
give more of his attention to acquisition of this kind, 
he found a great lack in those qualities that had dis- 
tinguished such men as Deacon Marvin as lovers of 
their kind. He felt that he was generous, as the word 
is commonly used, but he was forced to believe that 
it had a meaning beyond his ability to understand 
with his present knowledge of heart-qualities. Breadth 
of character and of purpose began to him to mean 
more than the cultivation of one’s own especial powers. 
It meant true benevolence to one’s kind. When this 
impression gathered strength, then the man began to 
look upon men like Matt Dade in a different way than 
ever before, and the claims of the temperance cause 
slowly but surely began to assert themselves in his 
mind. 

Meanwhile the great forces working for good and for 
evil were arraying themselves for conflict in Masson. 

Thomas Mayne drank harder as time went on, and 
was fast becoming a terror to his family. When he 
was under the influence of liquor his wife and chil- 
dren found no peace and feared for tlieir lives. 


ON THE EVE OF A REVOLUTION. 127 

He liad been drinking worse than usual for a week, 
when, one day, he came home seeming to be pos- 
sessed of seven evil spirits. He persecuted his wife 
by demanding that she should sell another lot ; and 
when at last she left him to his fury and took her way 
to a little room near the top of the house, where she 
had been accustomed to flee and lock herself in until 
the storm of wrath was over, he went out and took 
his way to the south lot. 

It was, perhaps, an hour afterward that Johnny 
came running into the house and calling for his 
mother. The little fellow knew her place of ref- 
uge, sought so often in hours of trouble, and, not find- 
ing her below, ran up to the little room, calling : 

“ Mamma, mamma ! A man is cutting down Old 
Hickory. I heard the sound as I came up the road. 
I know it was over in the south lot. I climbed to the 
top of the shed when I got into our yard.’’ 

‘‘Old Hickory is no longer ours, my child,” the 
mother answered, while the tears started to her eyes. 
“But then,” she added, “Mr. Doone promised to give 
us a chance to buy the lot again if Philip can pay 
him in a year. Kun, Johnny! It cannot be true. 
Mr. Doone would not send a man to cut down the tree. 
He could not be so cruel. Eun, my boy, and see what 
the sound is. It cannot be over in the south lot.” 

Johnny ran out, and, coming back, asked, excitedly : 


128 


ALOm THE ANATA W. 


‘‘ Wliat shall I tell him, mamma ? What shall I say 
to stop the man who is cutting down Old Hickory ? ” 

She did not answer him; she stood in a dazed way. 
Johnny, strangely enough, did not press his ques- 
tion, but his blue eyes sought hers as lie called out : 

“ Good-liye, mamma ; I’ll take care of the tree like 
a man for you.” 

And the mother in tones of yearning tenderness 
answered : 

Good-bye, Johnny, mamma’s little man ! ” But 
when the sound of the child’s feet had died in the 
distance she whispered fondly, “ Dear baby, I wonder 
what trouble will be his in this world of suffering ? ” 

Her limbs trembled as she went to take her sewing 
that she might distract her thoughts from the un- 
pleasant subject ; she fitted the patch neatly to the 
little worn sleeve of her dear baby’s ” jacket, and 
she pressed lovingly the little garment he had so 
lately worn, warm with his life. But the moments 
seemed hours. 

Johnny was fleet-footed that day ; he ran like a 
deer until he came in sight of the old tree that he 
loved so well. He saw that it was really being cut 
down, and to the horror of his young soul he recog- 
nized that it was his own father who was cuttino- 

O 

down the tree that had been so dear to them all. He 
saw that it had begun to lean ; his childish instincts 


ON THE EVE OF A REVOLUTION 


129 


did not wliisper to liiin of danger as, with arms 
outstretched as if to protect the falling giant, he ran 
up to the leaning side. 

The bid tree which had so long weathered the fury 
of the tempests had fallen at last a victim to the 
Doone power. And Johnny? The little boy whose 
puny, arms had been raised as if to save it — little 
Jolinny, his mother’s darling, the liome pet, the “ dear 
baby” — Johnny lay cruslied and lifeless under it ! 

Thomas Mayne threw down his ax and ran to the 
spot wliere his child lay; he called wildly, “Johnny ! 
Johnny ! ” But there was no sound of a child’s voice, 
only the cry of the startled birds as they left forever 
the low-lying branches that could never again afford 
a resting-place as they poured out tlieir songs. 

The distracted father stai-ted like a madman for 
home ; he ran hatless into the yard. 

Mrs. Mayne, who had gone down to the door to 
look for Johnny, heard his piercing cry before she 
met the awful look upon his face. One glance at this 
despairing face told her something of the story, and 
she fell a swooning heap at the door. 

Two days afterward the mangled form of little 
Johnny was carried out from the home at the ferry, 
across the smiling Anataw, to the old family burying- 
ground of the Paleys and laid to rest. 

Dr. Dene conducted the funeral ceremonies and 
9 


ISO 


ALONG THE AN AT AW. 


spoke of the inscrutable ways of Providence,” and 
of ‘‘ the wisdom and love back of all tlie sorrowful 
dispensations that visit faithful lives, as well as those 
of the godless.” 

Deacon Marvin’s tall form loomed up near him, 
and if Dr. Dene could have read his expression he 
might have discovered contempt and a new purpose 
there. 

I wonder, deacon,” began his wife, as she rode 
home from the church-yard by his side, “ I wonder 
how you could help speaking right out when Dr. 
Dene talked as he did about Johnny’s death. He 
laid this cruel thing all to the Lord ! Don’t you see, 
deacon ? Just as if the Lord got up this dreadful 
way of disciplining that poor family that have been 
bearing so much for years because the people of Mas- 
son are such cowards ! ” 

“ Yes, Polly, I do see !” answered the deacon, as 
he laid the whip a little more decidedly than was his 
general practice upon Sorrel’s back. ‘‘ I see more 
than I am able to express, and I have faith to believe 
that if the faithful of Masson stand up as one man 
to inquire of the Lord what force lies hidden in this 
av.Lul event they will receive light upon their duty 
and perhaps get their marching orders. Polly, we 
are on the eve of a revolution ! I am persuaded that 
we shall hear the bugle-call soon now ! ” 


oy THE EVE OF A REVOLUTION, 


131 


Philip did not take up his work at the Waite farm 
again for weeks, for the tragical deatli of little Johnny 
was followed by events that marked the home by the 
ferry as a scene of a long tragedy. Piiilip, stricken as 
he was, felt that he must simimon all his courage and 
hope to sustain his poor mother, who seemed unwill- 
ing to face a future that must be full of memories as 
well as trials. 

Thomas Mayne, crazed by liquor, had been 
prompted to the insane act of taking the life of the 
old tree, and through it of causing the death of the 
little son who was to him, in his better moments, like 
the apple of his eye. The hickory-tree had stood to 
him as a reminder of the past years so full of joy and 
promise, so marked with home happiness, when little 
children gathered the nuts and talked of “ Grandpa 
Paley’s tree.” 

Aye, and memory forced him through this old 
tree to go back to the hour when his wife, Mary, 
had accepted the south lot and had promised not to 
part with it except to save life. It made him recall 
his own words : “ She shall never want while 1 have 

a heart as warm and an arm as strong for her as 
now.” 

Ah ! the old tree had been in the way of his peace 
ever since he had parted with his will. 

When Thomas Mayne, without his liquor, con- 


182 


ALONG THE ANATAW, 


fronted tlie facts of liis own awful experience he be- 
came crazed indeed, and the home at the ferry held 
danger for those who watched liim in Ins delirium. 

Deacon Marvin and his wife proved themselves 
friends in truth throughout these trials, offering sub- 
stantial help as well as their best and deepest sym- 
pathy. One evening the deacon went up to the cabin 
where Matt Dade lived a solitary life, and said to 
him : 

“ Mr. Dade, I tliink there is a call for your services 
down at Thomas Mayne’s. I came for you to go 
down and stay with poor Thomas, who is wild with 
delmuin tremens. You can have pity and patience 
for such an one as lie. You, by the grace of God, are 
fitted to meet his returning reason with the offer of 
a help mightier than man’s. 

“ I know you will not refuse, for you have given 
yourself body and soul to the work. Do you feel, 
Mr. Dade, that you are called to such a service as 
this? ” 

“ I do,” answered Matt, humbly. 

The eleventh-hour man blessed God for the chance 
of working in his vineyard, and spurned no oppor- 
tunity that presented itself to prove that he was en- 
listed for service. 

Matt had need of the all- pervading power of his 
liigh purpose ; for a man who seems to be possessed 


ON THE EVE OF A REVOLUTION 


133 


witli seven devils needs a miraculous hand to deal 
with him. 

A fear had taken hold of the sick man that some 
one was trying to kill him with an ax ; first it was 
Squire Paley, and then it was Doone. He would 
call to his wife to take Johnny away from the tree 
in tones that might have been heard across the Ana- 
taw. 

Mrs. Mayne, as she lay prostrated in the little room 
at the top of the house, implored her daughter Annie 
to give her something to help her to sleep. 

‘‘ I cannot bear it, child ! My reason will not hold 
out much longei*, and I know your poor father will 
need me when the delirium is past. Your poor 
father needs our help and patience and love, child, as 
he never did before,” she added. 

The watcher with Thomas Mayne had need of his 
best ability, and when he seemed to himself to have 
exhausted his fund of sympathy and persuasion, then 
he prayed — prayed as few know how to pray — with 
the abandon of a child who asks all and expects all. 

Deacon and Mrs. Marvin never went into the house 
at the ferry but they carried with them a blessing and 
received, themselves, a new impulse toward greater 
effort for the temperance cause. On one particular 
day, when the delirium seemed to be passing from the 
mind of Thomas Mayne, Mrs. Marvin, entering the 


184 


ALONG THE ANATA 17 . 


house that was so sliado^ved with trouble, was met by 
Matt Dade, who said in almost a whisper : 

lie is coming to his senses fast, Mrs. Marvin, and 
what shall I say to him when he begins to remember 
the awful facts about the tree ? I’m a simple man ; 
I don’t know much about soft ways o’ doing things. 
Tell me how I shall comfort him, ma’am ! ” 

The placid face of the gentle woman wore a dis- 
turbed expression for a minute, and then she said : 

“Mr. Dade, when Thomas Mayne comes to himself I 
think his first thought will be for his wife. She is the 
one to comfort him. I will talk with her about it.” 

As the brave woman ascended the stairs she felt a 
sinking at the heart at what she believed to be her 
duty to the wife of the man who had ruined the happi- 
ness of his home. Slie longed for the presence of 
the deacon, that she might get a word of advice as to 
her course. She felt that to point out a wife’s duty 
to one like Mary Paley was a very delicate commission. 
She put up a short, silent prayer to the mighty One, 
and knocked gently at the door of the little room. 

Annie opened it to her, and as she entered she saw 
the wife and mother sitting with a box opened before 
her. Her face flushed as her eyes met those of her 
visitor, and after the first words of greeting were ex- 
changed she said : 

“ I am looking over some old letters, Mrs. Marvin, 


ON THE EVE OF A REVOLUTION. 


135 


and pictures, too,” slie added softly. ‘‘Here is a 
picture of my liusband taken the year we were 
married ; ” and she passed the little case toward Mrs. 
Marvin. It was an old-fashioned daguerreotype, made 
at a time when the surprise and joy of those who 
had been able for the first time to get the likeness 
of a friend’s face had not been dissipated by the 
frequency of having one’s picture taken. 

“ It is a handsome face, and an honest one,” said 
Mrs. Marvin. 

“ There was not a handsomer man nor a truer one in 
Masson when I married him,” tlie wife said, proudly ; 
“ and I have somehow to-day been through a strange 
experience. It seemed as if we were to start anew, as 
if my husband were to have a chance again, and that 
Dootie was to have no power over him. Poor Thomas ! 
If Doone could liave allowed liim to follow out liis 
own desires all would have been well with him.” 

The deacon’s wife was thrilled through and through 
at tlie sound of these wifely words. “ There will be 
no need of my poor help in the matter. Her heart will 
spring to her husband’s needs in its own way,” she 
thought. 

“ I have been tliinking,” Mrs. Mayne continued, 
after a little silence, “ that I may be called for the sake 
of my husband to go out from the home of my fathers 
and begin life with liiin away from Masson — away 


136 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


from the influence of Doone. I am sure there cannot 
be a Doone in every place, and if he could only have 
time to get a start — if Thomas could, I believe he could 
be his old self again. I do not think I have ever felt 
just right before. I thought if my husband seemed 
to change that it was no sin for me to be changed 
toward him ; but I have been forced to see it all in a 
different light during the last days. I have felt what 
Christ has done for me — how he has held his love close 
to my indiflerence through long years. I have seemed 
to understand the spirit of his sacriflce better. Before 
I believed I was faithful to my duties as far as they 
presented themselves ; but ah ! I think I was not will- 
ing to give all, and when dear little Jolinny was 
taken — ” here she paused, for her words were choked by 
her emotion ; the tears followed fast, and she gave her- 
self up to her grief. Then wiping them away she be- 
gan again : “ I was desperate. I felt that my patience 
and love and hope were overworn, that I would no 
longer try to perform even the outward duties of a 
wife and mother ; that if God had singled me out, as 
lie seemed to have done, for misfortune and trial I 
would give up to fate and drift on where it led ; that, 
getting no help or love from my husband, I would not 
flght to hold mine for him. But it is all changed 
now. I see that a marriage promise is a life promise. 
It means until death, Mrs. Marvin. It must mean for 


ON THE EVE OF A REVOLUTION 


137 


me sacrifice of all things, if need be, to save my liiis- 
baiid. I am ready now to begin again a new life for 
liim, and someliow, as I said to you, it seems as if be 
were to take a new start.” 

As she pronounced these last words Annie, who had 
been absent during her mother’s talk, entered the 
room and, going close to her mother, said, in a low 
voice, “ Father is calling for you ; Mr. Dade says he is 
in his right mind.” 


138 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


CIIAPTEE XIT. 

SAFE FROM DOONEl 

I KNEwtlie call would come,” the mother answered, 
in tones that were almost triumphant. Her eyes had 
almost a sparkle in them, and her voice held a some- 
tliing which might have meant hope and love and 

“I must go down to my husband,” she said. “ The 
hour has come when I am to prove my faith.” Mrs. 
Marvin grasped her hand, and as she pressed the worn 
fingers she said, “ I wish you joy and peace,” as one 
might offer a God-speed ” to a bride who was to go 
forth with the bridegroom she had chosen, and then 
the deacon’s wife passed out. 

“ I want Mary ! Where is Mary ? ” Thomas Mayne 
had been pleading and asking for an hour. Ilis 
watcher had tried to put off a reply and to distract 
the attention of the poor creature whom his skill and 
care and sympathy had brought up from the place of 
demons to the border-land of recovery. He could not 
bear — this man who had himself become clothed and 
in his right mind — that the wife of Thomas Mayne 


SAFE FROM DO ONE! 


139 


should be shocked by the appearance of lier husband. 
He wanted to gain time. But when he found tliat his 
patient would not be put off he decided to humor his 
wish ; and he set to work to make him as presentable as 
possible. When he had shaved and washed and changed 
the clothes of the sick man, and Iiad seated him comfort- 
ably in a chair, he could not help thinking about the cast- 
ing out of the seven devils and wondering if the change 
in those old-time afflicted ones could have been more 
marked than with this one, who had been so long 
possessed with the devils of intemperance. 

“ Have you found Mary ? ” Thomas asked, eagerly, 
as he waited, weak as an infant, in eagerness for a 
sight of his wife. 

She is coming,’’ Matt answered. 

Thomas turned paler than before when he heard 
his wife’s step outside. He bent forward ; she entered ; 
he half rose as he murmui*ed, ‘^Mary ! ” 

My husband ! ” the wife exclaimed. Matt went 
softly out and the two were alone. 

The old first days of wedded love, the days that 
had been so long obscured by neglect, by cruelty, and 
by sin, shone out again. Thomas and Mary had again 
plighted their troth ; it had been witnessed by angels 
if not by men, and had been recorded, as their latest 
vow, in heaven. 

“,You have been very, very sick, my husband,” said 


140 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


the wife, as slie tenderly passed her hand over his hair, 
in answer to questions that proved his mind was busy 
witli fancies which were shadows of the awful facts 
which his returning reason failed to recognize fully. 

Suddenly he asked, ‘‘Where is Johnny ? ’’ Ilis wife 
trembled, and tried to divert his mind to another sub- 
ject. She succeeded for a time, when he again asked, 
‘‘ Mary, did you say Johnny was not in the house ? ” 
Then his wife put up a little prayer for help. 

She answered after the question was again put to 
her, “ Johnny has gone aw'ay, husband ; he will not be 
back to-day, and you need rest and quiet now, Thomas ; 
you are not strong enough ^^et to talk much.” She 
smoothed his hair as she spoke, which had a strangely 
quieting effect upon him, for the touch was magnetized 
by the new purpose which had grown up in the wife’s 
heart for her husband. 

With his hand in hers he lay for an hour quietly 
resting, while she, with the face of the man whose 
life had been linked with hers speaking to her of a 
tragic experience, w^ondered how the scroll of the 
future would unroll for them and for theirs. She 
stood as a child before this future ; yet she was as 
a strong woman before her purpose to give her life to 
help her husband on to a place of victory. 

When her husband opened his eyes again he looked 
around in a bewildered way, and then, turning to his 


SAFE FROM DO ONE! 


141 . 


wife, a look like that of liis bridegroom days eame into 
his eyes as he whispered, “Dear Mary — I wish — I 
wish — Mary, that you would kiss me. It seems — is it 
really a long time since I called you Dear Mary and 
kissed you ? ” 

She bent and gave him the wife’s kiss, tlie kiss that 
for years had not waited upon lier tremulous lips. 

“Wife,” he said, again, “ I want to look out ; I have 
been shut in so Iona; that I have almost forijcotten 
how it seems. I want to look out on the Anatavv, and 
over at the south lot.” 

She helped him to reach the window ; his eyes fol- 
lovv^ed the peaceful river along its course past the old 
home. Then his gaze wandered toward the wood lot 
that had been so unlawfully gained by Doone. He 
started as he viewed the well-remembered lot. lie 
pressed his hand to his forehead. He turned to his 
wife and said, “Mary, I do not see the old hickory- 
tree. It could always be seen from this window.” 

He gave another searching look toward the well- 
remembered spot. Again he pressed his hands to his 
head ; then, as his eyes sought the face of his wife, 
she knew that the awful memory of that tragic day in 
the south lot had flashed upon him. 

“I see it all now,” he exclaimed, and then fell 
swooning by his wife’s side. 

They bore him to his bed — Matt Dade and Philip 


142 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


— and each restoring remedy was tried without avail. 
Life slowly went out of the abused body, and Doone’s 
best customer was gone. 

They dressed tlie body for the grave ; they shed 
their tears over it as if tliis linsband and father had 
made tlieir lives a joy instead of a woe. 

It was midnight when Mrs. Mayne, having refused 
all offers of those who would assist in watching with 
her dead, took her lamp and went alone into the room 
where her husband lay. 

She removed the face-cloth and revealed the still 
features. Death had seemed to transform them ; it 
liad dignified the face of her husband. As she gazed 
one by one the signs of the qualities of her youthful 
husband stood out in marked characters ; they were 
all there — love and purity and strength; but all bore 
the stamp of a diguity which had been made immortal. 

A strange exultation came to her. The life that 
they — husband and wife — had begun just before death 
had come was their ideal life ; it would become real in 
the next world. She was lifted to a place of peace 
through the belief that this expression upon the cold 
features had been a true likeness of the state of her 
husband’s soul when free from the influence of Doone. 
He had been given an opportunity to adjust himself 
to his early purpose of true manhood. 

“ He is safe — safe from Doone ! ” she whispered, as 


SAFE FROM DO ONE! 


143 


she laid her hand upon the silent heart. “ He can 
live out Ills manhood in heaven, for there can he no 
rum-seller there ! ” 

In this belief she was able to live through the first 
trial days, and through all the after days that set in 
upon an experience of woe like a return tide to over- 
whelm weaker souls. He became through this her 
lost bridegroom, the dear Thomas of her first married 
days. 

And for Doone ? Doone had been to her home a 
power for evil ; but he could be so no longer. Why 
should I longer hate his very name?’’ she reasoned. 
Then she shuddered as all dark influence of the rum- 
power over her home presented itself. There are 
other homes,” something seemed to whisper ; other 
homes are not safe, though yours is delivered. What 
will you do for these cursed homes ? What flowers 
of pity and love and help will you snatch from your 
personal sorrows?” She did not turn a deaf ear to 
the insistent call. She found these flowers that, always 
sown amid the rank growths of affliction, yet are not 
always found by the tear-dimmed introspective eyes 
of the soul. She gathered these flowers gladly, and 
thus the appointed blessed mission of her long years 
of trouble was accomplished. 

It was perhaps two weeks after Thomas Mayne had 
been carried to his last resting-place in Masson’s bury- 


144 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


ing-around, and Mrs. Mayne had calmly taken up her 
home duties, bearing about in her heart the conscious- 
ness of her loss as she saw before lier constant remind- 
ers of her loved ones, yet bearing, too, a brave pur- 
pose for those who remained, when she saw Deacon 
Marvin coming up the walk. 

He advanced with a determined step, and Mrs. 
Mayne, watching, knew that he had an important 
errand. She conducted him into the sitting-room and 
waited for him to make it known. He began at once 
to say : 

‘‘ Mrs. Mayne, I thank God that your husband is 
saved to you, as I believe, to all eternity. Matt Dade 
has told me of the words that he dropped in his hear- 
ing after his reason returned. He was humbled be- 
fore God on account of his sins, and we know that our 
Lord and Christ never turns any one away that is 
humble. Your liusbaYid is safe. Doone can never 
harm him more. You have a right to sing for joy at 
the thought. I rejoice with you. But there are other 
husbands, Mrs. Mayne, that are not safe ; there are 
other homes that are cursed. Those who have suf- 
fered through the rum-power are called as are no 
others to become apostles for the cause of temperance. 
To-day there is need, as never before, for those who 
are called to be apostles in the great service.’’ 

The deacon paused then and looked anxiously at 


SAFE FROM DO ONE! 


145 


the woman who liad passed tlirough the fiery fur- 
nace of trouble as if he would find proofs in the pale 
face that these trials liad made tlie gold shine more 
brightly. A look of doubt came into the woman’s 
eyes, then a sudden pallor overspread her features 
as she sank into a chair. She raised her head at last 
and asked, hesitatingly : 

“ Do you think. Deacon Marvin, that the temper- 
ance cause asks for public service from me ? ” 

The deacon bowed his head in answer. She cast 
down her eyes, and there was a trembling about her 
mouth. She again raised her eyes and asked : 

“ Do you think I ought to go forth now, with my 
sorrows upon me ? ” 

The deacon was silent a few moments, then said : 

‘‘You remember the plea of the one whom Christ 
called by his Spirit to follow him — ‘ Suffer me first to 
go and bury my father.’ You remember the Master’s 
words in answer. I think he would tell you to-day 
to take your sorrows with you. Mrs. Mayne, I think 
this very sorrowful experience will give your service 
a power. I believe that such as you are elected as 
temperance apostles.” 

“ But what can I do. Deacon Marvin ? What es- 
pecial work is there for me ? ” 

“We want your help, Mrs. Mayne,” the deacon 

replied, with a firm voice, “ to make a case against 
10 


146 


ALONG THE AN AT AW. 


Doone. The Lord calls you, I believe, to such a 
service. Are you willing to give so much ? ” 

The widow bowed her head ; it seemed as if a new 
and unbearable phase of suffering was about to pre- 
sent itself. All the temptation and defeat that had 
come to her husband’s life through Doone seemed as 
if it had never been, for the memory of the last 
blessed hours of his life, wdien they had pledged 
themselves to each other anew, overshadowed all. 
She would not remember her beloved Thomas in 
another light than that of those last hours when the 
new love-purpose had taken possession of him ; it 
would seem a monstrous cruelty for any one to expect 
this of her. Thus she reasoned ; and her delicate in- 
stincts fought long against this idea of making her 
dark experience do duty for any cause. She turned 
a pleading face toward the deacon and wdiispered: 

“Do not ask me to pledge myself to-day. I must 
have time; I must consult my children’s wishes; I 
must be able to see clearly that I am not wronging the 
sacred memory of my dead. I am w^eak now ; give 
me time. O, give me time 1 I will try to decide for 
the right.” 

Deacon Marvin took her hand at parting, saying, 
“You cannot decide it without help higher than 
’nan’s wisdom can suggest. I leave you with the 
help of the Mighty One ; ” and he was gone. 


A RECRUIT. 


U7 


CHAPTEK XIIL 

A RECRUIT. 

When Deacon Marvin readied home lie found 
Squire Waite in the sitting-room talking with Polly 
about his daughter Edith. This one subject — his 
daughter — was a fruitful one to the fond father, and 
he never tired of it, and, like many another who has 
a friend or a cause near his heart, he believed others 
could never become tired of hearing him talk upon 
his loved subject. 

Polly was a very sympathetic listener, but it must 
be owned that her interest centered more especially 
upon the young girl — Jessie Ward — who was the 
companion of this rare specimen of flesh and blood. 
She wondered that this rapt father could not open his 
eyes to the fact that his daughter was a weak para- 
site, and that all his love and care and thought for 
her only served to strengthen her in her habits of 
uselessness, because lacking the element that would 
teach the lifting and saving of character, though it 
might be through the sacriflce of bodily comforts. 

But Squire Waite’s errand at this time was to Dea- 


148 


ALONG JHE ANATAW. 


con Marvin, and when the step of the hitter was 
heard upon the walk outside he dropped his favorite 
subject, and every sense became alert for the meeting 
with his friend. 

Polly knew what the deacon’s errand to the widow 
had been, and during his absence there had been a 
little prayer upon her lips that grace and strength 
might be given the poor woman to receive the words 
of her husband, which she never for once doubted 
would be fitting and wise ones. 

When upon his entrance she looked into the dea- 
con’s face she knew that the interview had been one 
which had not left his mind Avholly at rest ; she went 
into the kitchen and took up her cake-making in an 
abstracted way, as if for once she considered the mak- 
ing of a cake of secondary consideration to the great 
subject that filled her mind. Not that she was a 
housekeeper who believed exact service of this kind 
Avas a saving virtue, but Mrs. Polly Marvin had the 
reputation of being a good manager and a good cook, 
and, what was better, a good homekeeper. She had 
her rules for her cookery, too, rules that were never 
slighted in the smallest degree. If it gave a cupful 
it was a law, and, as a consequence, with her careful 
attention to the temperature of the oven, she was 
never obliged to apologize that it was “ sum mat in the 
yeast, or summat in the flour ” that was the cause of 


A RECRUIT. 


149 


the failure. But someliow at this particular cake- 
making she worked mechanically, and wliether the 
exact one, two, three, four of the rule was duly com- 
pounded she could not have sworn ; but that night, 
as the den con tasted the cake, he ventured : 

Polly, it seems as if this cake was a little different 
from what you usually make — not cpiite up to the 
mark, Polly.” 

‘‘"Well, now, deacon,” answered Polly, “if it had 
been a little better than common I’m sure you would 
never have spoken ; men are so queer ! ” 

“ But, Polly, wife, I know that you would get sick- 
ened with all my praise if now and then I didn’t crit- 
icise a trifle just to show you that I’m capable of 
judging of what is good. As I take it that’s about 
the reason for most of the criticism.” 

Polly, however, cared little about the praise or the 
blame then, for she was very anxious to hear the par- 
ticulars of the long interview between her husband 
and Mr. Waite, although she would not for the world 
have seemed to pry into the affair. 

There was a long silence following the deacon’s 
sally, in which both were very busy with their 
thoughts. At last the husband said : 

“ We have gained a friend for the cause, Polly, 
and he promises to be a stanch one. This dreadful 
tragedy at the Mayne home has roused his sense of 


150 


ALONG THE AN AT AW. 


justice to such a degree that it is likely to put him on 
a higher moral plane than any thing else could.’ 

From this he went on to tell his wife of the partic- 
ulars of his conversation with Mrs. Mayne and of the 
errand of Mr. Waite ; and while these two, so united 
in aim and in love, are discussing the situation, the 
reader can be taken into confidence with respect to 
the private interview with Squire Waite. 

‘‘ I want to say to you. Deacon Marvin,” began tlie 
visitor, “ that I am ready to do my part in this case. 
Of course it would be a cowardly mistake for Masson 
to sit with folded hands now. Other homes are 
threatened, and other lives may be ruined through 
our inaction. I want to confess that I feel ashamed 
that I have allowed you to bear the burden so long 
alone. I have lived to be fifty years old and have 
never lifted my finger to bear the burdens placed upon 
many in this town. 

“ I can’t look at Jessie Ward without a pang of re- 
morse, for if I had helped in the cause of right and 
justice I believe she would never have been brought 
to the suffering that she has endured. Her father 
might have been rescued from the power of Doone. 
Then there is Philip Mayne. Somehow he will not 
give me a chance to express my pity or to tell him 
that I made a fool’s mistake in letting Doone lay 
waste the home at the ferry. The young fellow has 


A RECRUIT. 


151 


a large share of the Paley pride. I can see hy ]ils 
very steps that he inlierits a large sliaro of it. And 
he lias old Squire Paley’s sense of honor and justice, 
too. Give the boy a chance and he’ll conquer.” Low- 
ering his voice here to a whisper, he said, And I 
am the one to give him that chance. lie is going to 
have an education, that boy is. Why shouldn’t I give 
him a chance ? But this court business that we’re to 
talk up, deacon, I have thought it would be much 
easier to persuade the mother to act publicly than to 
bring the son into the affair. As I said before, he’s 
full of the Paley pride, and I believe he thinks he’ll 
soon be able to take things in hand himself without 
the help of people who should have pledged them- 
selves to justice before.” 

Deacon Marvin told of his conversation with the 
widow Mayne and of her shrinking from the course 
that he had proposed. Then the two discussed meth- 
ods with regard to the coming trial, until at last their 
plans were matured. 

When the news of the death of Johnny, with the 
manner of that death, first reached the home of Mr. 
M^aite at Sunny Slope Jessie and Edith were together. 
Edith sank into a chair, and, burying her face in her 
hands, gave herself up to her emotions. 

O, why should such dreadful things happen?” 
she cried. “ Why should one like Philip, so kind and 


152 


ALONG THE AN AT A W. 


true aud tender, be made to suffer so ? Why couldn’t 
tlie world have been full of joy instead of full of 
sorrow % ” 

Jessie, standing by the window, looking out upon 
the objects that were becoming more and more indis- 
tinct in the twilight, was living again those terrible 
last days of the cabin home upon the Anataw ; yet she 
could not cry in her pain ; it had settled so far down 
in her soul that it was beyond the power of common 
words or expressions of grief to bring it from its 
place. She was not so absorbed in painful memories 
tliat she could be unmindful of the fresh grief of 
Philip. She knew how much he must have suffered 
through the trying home experience, and she longed 
to return the sympathy that he had so many times 
expressed for herself at her own loss. With such 
feelings she watched the lawn that had only a few 
hours before reflected the smile of the sun receive 
the coming shadows, and did not turn to answer 
Editli’s questions until she had asked, ‘‘ Why should 
one like Philip suffer so ? ” Then she left the window, 
rather because she had accustomed herself to answer 
her young companion’s calls than that she expected 
to give her any explanation that would satisfy her, or 
that she cared to talk of Philip’s sorrows. 

There was something almost desperate in her man- 
ner as she said : ‘‘It has been so always, ever since 


A RECRUIT. 


158 


tlie world began, I suppose, and I do not believe 
there can be anj^ use in thinking about it. It must 
make one insane to dwell upon it. I should not dare 
for my own part. ’’ 

“ ]^o, Jessie, we will not think ; we will put it 
away,” said Edith, as she wiped the tears to make 
way for the smile that overspread the expressionless 
features. “ Play for me, please, something gay and 
glad.” 

How the poor girl longed for an hour by herself as 
she took her place at the piano ! Always to obey the 
call of this young creature, who saw nothing below 
the surface, comprehended nothing but her own 
needs — sliould she ever be free from such service? 
Her soul cried this within itself and whipped itself 
into remorse b}^ calling to mind her promise of faith- 
fulness to the child of the man who had been a father 
to her. She played the prelude, and then sang Edith’s 
favorite sons^ of cheer. 

AYlien she had ended, looking up she saw the form 
of black Esther just beyond the door-way. Her arms 
were folded and her face wore a wistful expression as 
her eyes met those of Jessie. 

“ AVhat is it, Esther ? ” asked the singer. 

“You sing de joy-song, honey,” the negress an- 
swered ; “ ’pears like de sorrow-hymn would suit old 
Esther jess now. Ef now I could hear de sea-song 


154 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


’twonld fall into time with de music in dis yer ole 
heart.’’ 

Jessie gave an inquiring look toward Edith, who 
nodded as in assent, and Jessie began in a low, pa- 
thetic voice : 

“Break, break, break, on thy cold gray stones, O, sea! ” 

The black servant stood a rapt listener ; she moved 
her turbaned head in time with the music ; it was a 
feast to her, a feast of sorrow. Her nature demanded 
an occasional feast like this; glad experiences bore 
snch strong contrasts to lier own solemn nature that 
they became, when long-continued, painful, for this 
reason. A fierce storm, a wild, windy day — to these 
the chords of her sympathies answered ; in these she 
heard voices which held strange prophecies that were 
related to the future of those she loved. When thus 
listening to the voices she went about her duties like 
one entranced, her hody being in the master’s kitchen, 
but the real Esther far away. 

After Deacon Marvin had left the home at the 
ferry on the day when he had suggested to Mrs. 
Mayne her trying duty the poor woman was overcome 
with the thought of drawing from the past her awful 
experiences in the sight of Masson. Long she wres- 
tled with her doubts and misgivings, and prayed, like 
the Master, that the “ cup might pass ” if consistent 


A RECRUIT. 


155 


with the will of the Father. But, like that Master, she 
heard a convincing voice that, though tilling her soul 
with agony, also assured her that the wisdom and 
strength of the Mighty One would be sufficient for 
her. The question of duty being settled within her, 
there were presented to her sensitive nature questions 
of expediency: “Shall I consult with my children 
about the matter before I give my answer to Deacon 
Marvin ? ” “ Shall I not at least tell Philip, my con- 

fidant and sympathizer ? ” A voice whispered, “Go 
forward ! ” and, inspired by it, she laid upon the 
altar of sacrifice all that was dearest to her sensitive 
soul ; and thus she was led on to be a power in the 
great cause which had been so long pleading for 
champions — pleading in vain at the very church altars. 

After she had decided upon the one straight course 
she took her son into her confidence, told him of the 
struggle as well as of the triumph with regard to the 
matter. If her purpose had been less strong to follow 
the leadings of her conscience the pale fiice and plead- 
ing expression of her loved first-born might have af- 
fected it ; but she herself, turning a white face upon 
her son, gave him an answering look which signified 
to him all that words might of her conquering pur- 
pose. 

It must be confessed that in Philip’s mind the idea 
of getting even witli Doone, of bringing him to pun- 


156 


ALOm THE AN AT AW. 


islimenfc for all tlie ruin that had been wrought in 
their home through his agency, was uppermost. He 
was willing to help in the cause of temperance ; he was 
not willing to sacrifice toward the great end of reform 
in Masson. Doone was brought to justice. 

Mrs. Mayne long delayed laying the case before 
her daughter Annie, and Philip had said to his mother 
at the close of their talk, “ Please, mother, say noth- 
ing to Annie about it until it can no longer be kept 
from her. Poor Annie ! so pretty and bright as she 
is ! She shall have her chance yet, dear girl ! ” 

And the lovely daughter of the house lived to grow 
prettier and more attractive day by day, dreaming of 
a future above the reach of sorrow, bringing back 
through these dreams the old grand days at the Paley 
home. Ah, what glorious pictures she made as she 
assured herself that Philip would bring them all back, 
those old grand days ! 

“ Aud moving through a mirror clear, 

Tliat hangs before her all the year, 

Shadows of the world appear — 

And sometimes, through the mirror blue. 

The knights come riding two and two.” 


THE TRIAL AND AFTER. 


157 


CHAPTER Xiy. 

THE TRIAL AND AFTER. 

The time came when Mrs. Mayne and her son 
Philip were called to go into court and testify against 
Doone with regard to the south lot transaction and 
to all the successive events that made the family at 
the ferry an afflicted one. Matt Dade was also a wit- 
ness, and by the persistent and wise efforts of Squire 
Waite and of Deacon Marvin others had been found 
who were persuaded to give testimony which could 
not be annulled, with regard to the liquor-furnishing. 

The counsel for the liquor-seller was wise, as 
worldly wisdom goes, for his client. He spared noth- 
ing that might subserve his purpose of defeating the op- 
posing side, and subjected its witnesses to a sharp and 
persistent cross-questioning. It assumed a disgraceful 
and insulting form toward Mrs. Mayne and Philip. 
This smart lawyer tried to prove that no man of a 
good strong mind wmuld give himself up to intoxica- 
tion, and that it was all nonsense that one could make 
a drunkard of a man against his will. 

I have facts in my possession,” said the brisk at- 


]58 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


torney, as tlie trembling widow, like a martyr, held 
her place upon the witness stand, “facts that I can 
prove by reliable testimony, that your father objected 
to your marriage with Thomas Mayne on the ground 
that his ancestors, or one of them, a near one, had 
a weakness with respect to liqiior-drinking ; that 
your father feared that Thomas Mayne’s will was not 
so strong that it would be likely to resist temptations 
to take liquor. Were you aware, Mrs. Mayne, of this 
feeling of your father ? ” 

Deacon Marvin’s wife, who had been sitting by the 
side of her husband through the progress of the trial, 
rose involuntarily at this and grasped convulsively 
the end of her shawl. 

“ Sit down, Polly,” whispered the deacon ; “ I 
think she is equal to it.” 

The voice of the witness trembled, and then gained 
strength as she replied: 

“ When I married Thomas Mayne it was with the 
full consent of my father, who gave us both his 
blessing. Masson knows that my father was a wise 
man, and a gentleman^ sir.” 

Cheers went up from one corner of the court-room 
and were echoed again and again, while the badgering 
attorney, with flushed face, paused for the enthusiasm 
of the friends of the widow to subside. 

As Mrs. Mayne stood there, deflan t in her loyalty 


THE TRIAL AHD AFTER. 


159 


to the memory of those last days with her husband — 
days of her true marriage with him — she saw with a 
strange distinctness certain facts. There liad been an 
opposition at one time, upon the part of her father, 
to her marriage with Thomas Mayne ; hut when the 
young man had seemed to prove that certain traits of 
his ancestors were not so largely inherited by him, 
but that the purpose of his manhood could overrule 
them to subserve this highest purpose, the father gave 
his full consent to the union with his darling child. 

The widowed woman felt in those moments of re- 
trospection that a lie that is half a lie is always the 
hardest to bear.” 

Tlie lawyer brought his wit and sarcasm to bear 
against her husband’s character in the summing up, 
and she was obliged to hear it and to agonize at his 
words. Her son Philip must also hear it — the son of 
their early love. The mother saw him tremble at the 
disgrace heaped upon his father’s memory — disgrace 
that belonged to Doone and to Masson as a town. 

At last, after sparrings and bickerings between the 
opposing sides, the case was given to the judge, who 
was no other than Squire Waite. 

When their well-known townsman rose to speak the 
audience in the court-room had no idea how they 
were to be surprised. “ Squire Waite we know, but 
who is this man who stands before us speaking with 


160 


ALOm THE ANATAW. 


sncli an assurance of power ? ” was the substance of 
eacli man’s thouglit. They could hardly believe their 
senses as he proceeded with his word-picturing. 

Doone quailed as he described a man who was heart- 
less enough to take by fraud a patrimony religiously 
held by a persecuted, sorrowful mother for her chil- 
dren. He showed — this newly made orator — how 
one like Doone could command slaves to his own will 
so completely that the poor victims would in the end 
surrender all and be entirely shorn of their own will. 
He pictured the effect of this rum tyranny upon the 
homes — homes that were created for happiness ; 
homes of those who were descendants of men who had 
stood highest in Masson. He called upon those who 
remembered that grand man Squire Paley,” and his 
influence and help for Masson in times of her need, to 
have the courage to defend his children from the 
robber and the spoiler of their peace, and in doing so 
to stand for other threatened homes and lives in the 
town. Thus he went on from height to height of 
eloquence, until at last, when he ended, the court-room 
was filled witli applause. 

And the result was that Doone was obliged to sur- 
render the south lot. 

Doone, having no conscience able to do true serv- 
ice, so long had he subjected it to his hardening proc- 
ess, went out of the court-room feeling — surely not 


THE TRIAL AKD AFTER. 


161 


like a criminal. And the affair had not resulted in a 
heavy money loss ; therefore why should such a man 
feel defeated ? 

Many ‘‘good fellows” who were not his customers 
congratulated him as he briskly walked forth to take 
up what Masson had allowed him for a long time to 
call a “ business.” 

“ The temperance folks wont be able to score a very 
big victory, I’m tliinldng,” said a leader of the set at 
Doone’s as this set discussed the day’s event. 

Doone laughed and handed out the glasses as one 
above the reach of harm might have done, and the 
poor sots admired his dignity and courage and silently 
swore to a new allegiance. 

Mrs. Doone anxiously waited the coming of her 
husband for returns from the court-room, and she 
was in a state of great excitement as she heard his 
step in the hall. The smelling-bottle was in hand 
and the pillow of the lounge adjusted to her back as 
she tremblingly waited his appearance. 

“ O, Martin ! ” she cried, and sank upon the 
lounge. 

“ W ell, well, what’s all this about ? ” the husband 
asked. “ Did you expect me to come handcuffed with 
only a good-bye to you ? Martin Doone is a live 
man yet, and expects to proceed to his place of 

business in just ten minutes ; so, Madame Doone, 
11 


162 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


you’ve but a limited time to give to liysterics and 
questions.” 

“But, Martin, did it turn out all riglit, after all? ” 

“ I’m a trifle out by the tricks of the fanatics, to be 
sure, just the trifle of the south lot,” answered the 
man, and added, “ I never did really set much value on 
it. I had to take it to get my pay out of Tom, and 
there was something in being able to say that you 
owned a few of that old aristocrat Paley’s acres.” 

“But, Martin,” asked tlie tremulous voice again, 
did they say any thing insulting about you — any thing 
about — ” 

“ Why,” broke in the impatient husband, “ of 
course there’s alwaj'S a lot of mud thrown at such 
times, but Pm thinking our side didn’t get more than 
it gave ; ” and giving a long, low whistle, he went 
out. 

Mrs. Doone, left alone, laid down her smelling-bot- 
tle and sat up to think over the situation. Ever since 
the first talk of the trial just ended she had been 
subject to nervous fears. Martin had declared day 
by day that she was a changed \voman, and had dealt 
sharply with her fears and distrust in him, as he had 
been pleased to term it. 

She sat for a long time revolving in her mind the 
circumstances related to tliis trial, and all the memory 
of her many fears pi’esented itself. Then, turning 


THE TRIAL AND AFTER. 


163 


over like a sweet morsel the news which her husband 
had given of tlie result of the trial, she came to the 
conclusion that slie had been a fool and her husband 
liad proved himself a marvel of wisdom and a hero. 
In her heart of hearts her most sensitive point had 
been her social position. To gain such a position in 
Masson had been the aim of years; to hold it when it 
was gained had been the source of an anxiety that 
gave her no rest. 

How,” she assured herself, “ I need have no 
further fears if, as Martin says, there was no more 
mud thrown on one side than on another.” 

She had not, it is true, found Martin infallible on 
all occasions, but she argued from his manner that his 
words in respect to the trial conveyed a right impres- 
sion of the trial. 

She decided to put off the uneasiness that had so long 
Jiaunted her and to hold up her head again in Masson 
.with the best, and she looked around upon the evi- 
dences of their prosperity with a smile of satisfaction. 
She even went into the front parlor, and, uncover- 
in<r the velvet-cushioned furniture, reveled in the con- 
sciousness of being its happy possessor. A great load 
was lifted from her mind, and all that night she 
dreamed of herself as a leader in Masson society, and 
when the morning came she rose wdth the purpose of 
enlarging and maintaining her personal influence. 


164 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


The inmates of the house at the ferry on this 
night following the trial did not have dreamless sleep, 
and their waking hours were far from peaceful. Mrs. 
Maj’ne could not recall the court scenes without a 
sense of humiliation when she thought of the insults 
that had been heaped upon her husband’s memory. 
Philip said with bitterness of soul, “ It has not 
amounted to any thing but the getting of the south 
lot, after all ; ” and he blushed in the loneliness of 
the night when he remembered the pain to which his 
mother had been subjected. 

But it is not over with yet,” he said to himself. 
“ When I am a little older I shall fight him in ear- 
nest. If the people of Masson are fools enough to 
allow^ him to destroy their homes they can leave him 
at large. But I have an account to settle with him 
— an account that has been gathering interest for 
years.” 

Annie’s maiden dreams were disturbed that night by 
nightmare sensations, and when the light made the 
objects in her room visible she was rejoiced to feel 
that she was in her own little room and that the 
shapes of evil that through the long dark hours had 
threatened her had fled. She was not the lijrht- 

O 

hearted Annie, how^ever, of the months before all the 
trouble had come to them, and was somehow shaken 
in her belief that the old Paley days would ever re- 


THE TRIAL AND AFTER. 


165 


turn to change tlie appearance of the home that for 
years had been steadily losing its character. Yet, 
tailing a long look at the face in her small mirror, she 
wondered if the ladies who surveyed themselves, per- 
haps in the very glass into which she gazed, found a 
fairer face than the one that smiled back at her on this 
morning after the trial. She went down-stairs, say- 
ing to herself, “ Yes, I am to be a lad3^ Philip has 
said so, and I must believe it.” 

Deacon Marvin, Squire Waite, and Matt Dade 
walked home together. Like many others wlio have 
given themselves to actual service, they found that a 
first battle, though holding for their side the elements 
of victory, was not a decisive one. 

‘‘ After all,” began the squire, “ one can’t help ask- 
ing if it has paid. When I recall the words of that 
low-lived lawyer, as he tormented that poor, crushed 
woman, I almost blush for shame that we ever allowed 
her to be placed in such a humiliating position.” 

“Yes, such a position is a pretty hard one,” said 
Matt Dade, for he was thinking of what he had been 
called to endure personally in the cross-questioning, 
and liow the lawyer had ridiculed the idea of possible 
veracity in one who had been for years a by-word in 
his weakness. “ But,” he added, “ when a man has got 
far enough away from his old self to look back upon it 
with a kind of triumph it makes a great difference 


166 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


Avitli the way of taking things. I can’t tell just what 
I thouglit about it when I stood up to tell the truth. 
I have longed, Squire Waite, since your great speech, 
to be able to say what is in my mind. If I had words 
wouldn’t I write a book, telling what a hell of tor- 
ment drunkards can suffer, and how they are tempted, 
and how when they make up their minds to do better 
they find their will all gone, and how they wonder 
why the strong-willed temperance people don’t try 
oftener to lift them out of the deep pit where they 
lie and can only see just a little of light ! O, I have 
got all the stuff to make a book if I only knew how! 
I have been thinking that some time I should be able 
to give what I’ve got in my mind to some one who 
knew how to make a book.” 

“ I’ve got some one up at my house who can do it, 
I am sure. Jessie Ward is no common girl ; and then 
she knows tlie inside of these things,” said Squire 
Waite, confidently. 

“ I have been thinking,” remarked Deacon Marvin, 
‘Uhat we underestimate initial service in a great 
cause. We may not live to see the day when tlie op- 
posing force wliicli we, in our apparent weakness, 
have tried to organize shall become mighty enough to 
put to fliglit the army of evils that arise from the rum- 
power. I fancy one could almost be conscious of such 
a victory were he in his grave.” 


THE TRIAL AND AFTER. 


167 


Matt Dade was thrilled through and through at these 
words of the man who had not only helped him out 
of the gutter, but had extended to him a brotherly hand 
of friendship and sympathy and had inspired him 
with confidence in a possible manhood of his own. 
Matt’s was one of those cases of singular illumination 
of the whole range of faculties peculiar to a perfect 
surrender of self to the leadings of the Mighty One. 
Those who cared to take observations of the new Matt 
Dade Avere astonished at the transformation. He 
seemed to have been recast in character. llis face 
wore a different expression, his eye had a changed 
look, his voice Avas softened, his step Avas firm and 
elastic, and in his sp>eech there was Avisdom and a cer- 
tain force not explainable. 

lie Avas indeed a new man — new to the core. But, 
this change being only possible to one through the 
power of God, it is difficult for those who are not 
in communion Avith the Highest to understand any 
thing of its mystery. 

Long the three who had become companions through 
a common purpose talked of the stirring events of the 
day as related to the final overthrow of the rum in- 
fluence in Masson ; and AAdien they parted it Avas Avith 
the soldier’s determination that meant steady and loyal 
service through defeat or through victory. 

Squire Waite’s speech as judge that day in the court- 


168 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


room became soon tlie town talk. Even tliose who 
belonged to the side that he attacked with unsparing 
justice of speech declared that the speech was a 
marvel of wisdom and fire ; and the friends of the 
temperance cause congratulated themselves that a 
mighty champion had revealed himself to them. And 
jet they distrusted their senses in some cases, and in 
others doubted if the power which had been shown 
in the court-room could be made available for another 
urgent necessit3^ 

We accept more readily surprises in the world of 
nature than we do in the world of grace ; and if we 
planned with no more confidence and faith with re- 
spect to the material world than we do for the spirit- 
ual, the results would show bankruptcy. It is only in 
a few cases that a great cause is championed by many 
who expect marvelous surprises and who wait to re- 
ceive a power from on high. And is not this the rea- 
son that ‘‘ no mighty works ” are done for the partic- 
ular cause? Friends of temperance, too, are apt to 
despise the slow marches and the lagging develop- 
ments that test workers as does the furnace-fire of all 
trial the faith and love of professed consecrated ones. 
Masson was not so peculiar that it could be an excep- 
tion with regard to all such temptations. How would 
she acquit herself ? Only the years could decide this 
question. 


TEE TRIAL AND AFTER. 


169 


Squire Waite Lad not only risen in the estimation 
of Masson, but to liis own consciousness he liad risen 
in dignity, and he had proved to himself that the doing 
of some of the great things of which he had dreamed 
since he made his last visit to the metropolis was pos- 
sible. And then his conscience constantly approved 
of his coming out for truth, and altogether he felt like 
an inspired man. 

Philip could have fallen at his feet in worship after 
that speech in which he had spoken tender, knightly 
words for his mother at a time when she needed them 
so much, and he felt a new respect for the man who 
had been so heroic in the face of old Masson and all 
her settled do-nothing notions. He felt that Doone 
must suffer from the speech — at least in the opinion of 
the best people ; and yet he regarded especial vengeance 
toward the rum-seller as his own particular mission. 

When Squire Waite told of the day’s doings and of 
the verdict against Doone, Jessie sighed as she thought 
of those whom she had so dearly loved who had been 
sacrificed before the dawn of the new era for temper- 
ance, and she silently sought the little arbor where 
she always went when she wished to be beyond the 
reach of the calls of Edith. Even a half-hour alone 
by herself she esteemed a great privilege, and through 
it she was better able to bear the incessant demands 
upon her personality ; for people who lack strength 


170 


AL ONG THE ANA TA W. 


of individuality, as did Edith Waite, are tyrants of the 
first class oftentimes over stronger natures; and sucli 
strong natures, strange as it may seem, can be afflicted 
sorely by the petty demands of these weak ones, when 
tlie latter are of a selfish nature. 

Slie had not long been seated in her favorite place 
of retirement wlien she heard footsteps approaching, 
and looking up she saw Mr. Waite at the entrance of 
the arbor. “ I followed yon,” the intruder began to 
say, in tones of apology, “ because I have something to 
say that may interest you ; ” and then he repeated the 
words of Matt Dade with regard to writing a book 
and his own remarks with respect to an author. 

“Did you think that of me? ’’asked the listener, 
eagerly. “ Did you think that I could do it ? I have 
dared to think it of mj^self, but I did not dare to be- 
lieve that another could suppose that I could write a 
book.” 

There came to her eyes a new, eager expression, and 
her whole face became lighted as she said : 

“ I have such a picture of sorrow in my mind, such 
a sad, sad picture, Mr. Waite; and sometimes when I 
am thinking it all over, all the life that is past, when 
I see others happy in their homes, I ask within my- 
self, ‘ Why should it have come to pass?’ I think if 
I could make it useful to some one — all this dark 
picture — I could find relief in the effort. If I thought 


THE TRIAL AND AFTER. 


171 


I ever could be able to do so life would wear such a 
different face to me.” 

Had the man througli his own experience learned 
to understand the nature of the pain that was burden- 
ing the life of this bright young creature ? Did he 
know that a talent or a deep experience laid away 
would of necessity burden a great soul until it was 
made useful for one’s kind ? It seemed that his recent 
experience had taught him this. 

lie cast down his eyes and was silent after Jessie’s 
last words. Then he lifted his head and said : 

“ I have been thinking of late that I have shut you 
away from the helps that you need — that I have been 
blind to facts. Edith is so differently constituted. 
I judged that a pleasant home, and music, and a little 
travel now and then, would satisfy you. I find I was 
mistaken ; I did not take account of exceptional cases 
of need. I wanted you for a companion for my Edith, 
and God knows I wanted also to make your life happy. 
I did not know that one so young as you could be 
haunted with the desire to do for tlie world and to 
make the most of what had been given her in heart 
and mind.” 

He paused, and, leaning his head upon his hand, 
seemed lost in thought for a few minutes. Jessie 
reproached herself for having said any thing that might 
liave led her benefactor to this train of tliought that 


172 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


hold blame for liiii:self. She touched his hand, say- 
ing, in tender tones: 

“ O, my dear, kind friend ! You have made me 
happy — as happy as I could be under any circum- 
stances, perhaps ; but I think there would always be 
the pain of all I have laid away until I had learned 
how to use it for others.” 

She went on to express her gratitude again and 
again ; but she could not convince the man who had 
shown her so much generosity that he had been wise 
in the plans he had made for her. He pondered day 
by day upon his duty to the orphan girl, and came to 
the decision that, like Philip, she was to have a chance. 

It was not strange that he should have gained in- 
adequate views of the aspirations of women ; for a man 
must judge from his own experience in this respect, 
and Mr. Waite’s wife and child had no comprehension 
of the questions of being and doing which haunt those 
who have lifted the eyes of their souls to the visions 
which offer themselves to all who would fulfill a 
woman’s highest destiny. 

‘‘ Wife,” Mr. Waite had said when he saw the truth 
that Jessie was born to no mean part in life, she is 
different from our Edith ; she is born for something 
beyond the common work of women.” 

Mrs. Waite was brushing her husband’s best coat 
as he ventured his remark. She laid down the well- 


THE TRIAL AND AFTER. 173 

used brusli and sank into the nearest chair a^ if the 
words of her husband had taken away the vigor of 
which she had been so faithfully making use upon his 
Sunday coat. 

Well, really, I don’t understand you. I thought 
it would come to this. I remember you thought 
so of her mother,” she began, and added, and she 
is like her mother — just that kind of out-of-the-body 
look in her eyes Such women always have turned 
men’s heads. ‘ Beyond the common work of women ! ’ 
Who put that into your head ? You’ve gone out of 
my reach since that court-house speech ; and you were 
such a practical man when I married you ! ” 

“O, Emmeline, don’t misunderstand me! I did 
not mean just what you think I did. My wife and 
my daughter are a part of myself. If I sometimes 
seem to neglect the acknowledgment of their worth 
and of their home-service, and of their value to my- 
self, remember that it is because they are my own, and, 
being a part of my life, it would seem about as delicate 
for a man to go round praising himself as to be speak- 
ing continually^ of these home treasures. And really, 
wife, do you not think that some women are boi-n to 
different service in the world than others are?” 

‘‘No, indeed ! I believe such doctrine is all moon- 
shine. I’ve seen many such women with that kind of 
a look, and who talked of things that the women who 


174 ALONG THE ANATAW. 

are doino^ the ‘ common work ’ of the world would have 
laughed at, and I never knew them to settle down to 
practical ideas. They seem only fitted to make fools 
of men,” she answered, in jerky tones. 

‘‘Well, well,” replied the husband, women cannot 
all be alike ; that you will own, Emmeline, and we will 
not get excited over such a little matter;” and the 
kind and tender husband took the hand of his wife 
and ])ressed it fondly without a responding pressure. 

Then he went out to his fields, and saw not what 
nature offered ; he was busy with the past. Two 
young faces presentd^ themselves to his rapt vision. 
One was that of the mother of Jessie Ward, the 
other the face of his wife, Emmeline. 

The first seemed full of an expression that once was 
a mystery, though a mystery that fascinated him. He 
was a young man then, and the idea of living was 
practical thinking and doing and practical comfort; 
and so he had turned, reluctantly, perhaps, but yet 
turned, from the charming mystery to strive for the 
ownership of the other face — a bright, pretty, laughing 
one — and Emmeline became his wife. Was there, as 
the two faces presented themselves to his later man- 
hood’s vision, a regret at his youthful choice ? He was 
a loyal soul, and if it were so only his God should ever 
know it. And since at the eleventh hour he had beffuii 

O 

again to live, to live after his later aspirations, he 


THE TRIAL AND AFTER. 


175 


must live separated forever in soul from Ids Emmeline 
of the early married days, and the breach between 
their souls would widen as the two went their separate 
ways. In the utter loneliness of the new life he must 
at times be conscious tliat notliing could beep him 
from disloyalty to his marriage vows but a constant 
habit of the faithful observance of the smallest act of 
love to his wdfe, and, more than all, a trust upon the 
Mighty One for help. 

lie passed his hand across his eyes as these pictures 
of his early experience 2‘)i*esented themselves; he was 
impatient at their persistent coming; Avith a strong 
will-effort he forced himself to plan for the one whose 
face bore so strong a likeness to this which had held 
the mysterious charm to his young manhood. 

She must be educated ; that is certain,” he said to 
himself; and then he remembered Avhat Deacon Mar- 
vin had told him that very day about the new pre- 
paratory school that was to be started. “ They shall 
all go to it, ” he said, as die brought his hands to- 
gether with a vigorous action, ‘^Philip and Jessie 
and Edith, right here in Masson. What a lucky 
thing for us all that I can keep them here with me! 
That is every thing ! ” 


176 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


CHAPTEK XY. 

MASSOi^ HAS A SCHOOL. 

Masson’s settled ideas of educational modes were at 
last to be disturbed bj the advent of a real educator, 
one who had been called, and who had accepted serv- 
ice not without a suspicion of the difficulties which 
might present themselves in a town like Masson. 

This educator was a young man to whom text-book 
knowledge was not the Alpha and Omega, and who stood 
in a reverent attitude before the developments of his 
century. He owned no intellectual mold which he ex- 
pected to serve for the casting of the mind of the 
whole school without regard to mental preferences 
or proclivities of each pupil ; but when it was declared 
that he was a real educator this fact was implied. 

He was to be a surprise to old Masson as well as 
a blessing ; but first he was to suffer much from the 
prejudices of the place, and this suffering was to make 
him strong, as does all suffering those who are made of 
the real martyr stuff. This advent and the late trial 
occupied Masson. The deacon talked over the trial 
with his wife, who was so incensed at the rough treat- 


MASSOy MAS A SCHOOL. 


177 


ment of Mrs. Majne tlirongh the remarks of the law- 
yer that she was not prepared to look at results 
calmly. 

‘‘ I know, I know, Polly,” Deacon Marvin replied 
as his wife groaned over the indignities offered. 

Poor Mary Paley has been through the furnace, but, 
Polly, she has come out gold— fine gold^ Polly ! 
And then think of what it has done for the temper- 
ance cause, this sacrifice of her most delicate in- 
stincts. The example which this one little woman 
has set by consenting to testify against the rum-seller 
may give other women courage to bring action against 
the spoilers of their peace. 

“ I have been thinking,” he went on to say, if the 
temperance women of this town would jdedge them- 
selves to support the wives of druidvards in an at- 
tempt to bring the rum-seller to justice they would 
show themselves more truly efficient than in any 
other wajn To be sure, women are sensitive about 
bringing their disgrace before the public ; but, poor, 
careful creatures ! do they not know that the public 
is sure to learn their secret in other ways ? Woman 
can be brave and efficient, and 1 should bo the last 
man, Polly, to deny her the high place of influence 
that belongs to her ; but I must say that I believe 
there are few, excepting my wife, who would bo 

willing to take the course which the Widow Maync 
12 


178 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


has taken. To me there seems to be a mistake in 
the general attitude of women toward this evil. They 
have stood in a patient, waiting manner too long. I 
don’t mean to say that resignation isn’t a desirable 
thing, but I do say that if fighting is in order then 
even the women should put themselves in fighting 
trim. Evil must be fought ; this seems to be a new 
doctrine for MassoTi, but if she ever rises beyond her 
low standards she has got to accept it.” 

The thoughtful face opposite that of the speaker 
wore a troubled look, for the wife of many ^^ears was 
trying to adjust herself to the imaginary position. 

“ Could I go into court if Doone had made the 
deacon a drunkard ? ” was the question for which she 
searched her heart foi* an answer. A sweet assurance 
rang through the chambers of her consciousness in 
the words of the promise, “ As thy day is, so shall thy 
strength be.” And though the impossible might 
come to her she felt the confidence of a consecrated 
soul as she lifted her head and with shining eyes 
looked into those of the deacon and whispered, 
‘‘Husband, I believe I should have strength to come 
forward for the sake of the cause even before the 
lawyers.” 

And the good man answered fondly, “ I am sure 
you would, Polly, for you had courage to come out 
before the women’s society.” 


MASSON HAS A SCHOOL. 


179 


Mrs. Doone prepared lierself for a liiglier place in 
the society circles of Masson. Confident, on account 
of her past successes in this direction, she overesti- 
mated her resources for personal advancement and 
doomed herself to a bitter disappointment. Her 
watchful eye began to detect among her former 
friends signs of a change — not a marked one, it is 
true ; but the slightest difference in manner was suffi- 
cient cause to indicate to her that her society position 
was not so firm as she had thought. 

As the days passed by one might have observed 
that affairs at Doone’s were not as of old. The pro- 
prietor, notwithstanding his braggart declaration of 
personal freedom, dealt out his licpior with more cau- 
tion with respect to confirmed drunkards. He secretly 
prided himself upon his nicety of discrimination as 
he promised himself, Martin Doone will never be 
caught again.” 

And thus, it may be seen, the trial had not been 
without its effect upon Masson. 

The organized effort of Masson for temperance be- 
gan to be a recognized force, and women whose hus- 
bands drank of Doone’s liquor found less of desi3airin 
their outlook as they thought how Mrs. Mayne had 
been upheld in her rigliteous cause. 

Squire Waite had the pleasure of placing Philip, 
Edith, and Jessie under the instruction of the new 


180 


ALONG THE AN AT AW. 


teacher. He found it a hard matter to induce Philip 
to take this preparatory tuition and the regular college 
course, for Philip had made up his mind to earn his 
way through college. Bat when his kind friend 
assured him that it would sjDoil his own cherished 
plans he reluctantly consented. 

“ I have no doubt, my boy,” said the squire, that 
you could yourself manage the expense, but, you see, 
time is money to me, and I need your help as an edu- 
cated man. You can pay me, of course, but you 
must go while you are fresh and full of enthusiasm.” 

Philip felt as if a nev/ world had been opened to 
him. His dreams were to be realized ; he was to 
have an opportunity to fulfill his boyish promise to 
his darling sister. His mother should have the joy 
of seeing the old Paley mansion regain its lost ap- 
pearance of comfort and dignity. 

Annie, growing daily more beautiful, should find 
her fitting place in society. What could he ask more 
when all this was realized? He would at this time 
have answered, ‘‘Nothing.” But what did he know 
of the wants that clamored to be filled ? And how 
could he tell how such wants grew by being fed ? 


SJB ARTHUR, KNIGHT. 


181 


CHAPTER XYI. 

SIR ARTHUR, KNIGHT. 

Edith had been enrolled with the others as a pupil 
at the new school, hut as the months passed she be- 
gan to fall out of one class after another, and at last 
she settled to a partial course, much to the disap- 
pointment of her father, who had fondly hoped that 
his child, through the influence of Jessie, might gain 
an interest in the things which so lately had grown in 
importance to himself. 

Annie had become a pupil at the academy also, and 
her bright manner and pretty face gained for her the 
admiration of the school. Mrs. Mayne, the woman 
of so many years of sorrow, seemed about to enter 
upon a peaceful experience. The loved ones who 
had passed from her sight were safe from temptation, 
saved, as she believed, to her for all eternity. Philip 
and Annie she saw entering upon life in a way her 
ambitions had long ago planned for them. Why 
should she not have her time of surcease from 
trouble ? 

‘‘ How beautiful you are growing, mother!” said 


182 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


Philip, one day, as he contemplated the striking face 
so softened and elevated in its' expression. 

Hush, hush, iny son ! ” replied the fond mother as 
a blush overspread her face. Philip’s words seemed 
somehow to suggest a reproach to lier, as it her widow- 
hood had given her freedom that could be pleasant 
to her. 

Philip did not explain his words. lie could not 
have done so. A philosopher might have reasoned of 
legitimate effect and of a cause, but only the soul that 
liad gone down into the grave of sorrow could liave 
suggested the beautifying power of this sorrow re- 
flected b}^ the face from the heart. 

When Philip had nearly flnished his preparatory 
course there came to him the offer of a friendship 
that was as a rainbow-hue to his young experience. 

Mr. Gregory, the new teacher, brought into the 
school-room one morning a young man, tall, straight 
as an arrow, and whose bearing was that of high 
breeding. His finely shaped head was crowned with 
a wealth of chestnut hair, and his beautiful brown 
eyes lighted a face of uncommon attractiveness. 

Philip, when he was introduced to him by Mr. 
Gregory, knew, the moment that the hand of the stran- 
ger lay in his, that a friendship was offered him, and 
his whole nature sprang eagerly to accept it; though 
what a marked influence the stranger should have 


SIR ARTHUR, KNIGHT. 183 

upon many of liis life-hopes he could not then have 
dreamed. 

Arthur Serle, the new-comer, was the son of a 
friend of Mr. Gregory, and had been sent from his 
city home with the hope of his doting parents that 
the influences of a quiet town like Masson might 
2)rove more beneficial than those of a great stirring 
city like the place of his residence. 

His father, Mr. Serle, held Mr. Gregory in such 
esteem that he believed his son’s character could be 
trusted to him for molding after the most perfect 
pattern. The truth was, the father knew this son 
to possess those qualities that would make him an 
easy prey to the destroying influences of a city where 
yearly so many bright hopes go out witli the wrecked 
lives of its young men ; and this knowledge was a 
constant terror to him when he secretly recognized 
the fact that there was a strain in the blood that flowed 
through this son’s veins that held the elements of 
riot. He was a wise father to act promptly accord- 
ing to his best leadings ; but who can foresee the end 
for their loved ones in time to neutralize the effect 
of a formative, beneficial influence ? 

When Annie beheld the face of Arthur Serle on 
the morning of his first appearance in the school- 
room she brought to mind the stories Philip had told 
her of the brave, handsome men who in the old and 


J84 


ALONG THE ANA TAW. 


prosperous days of the Paley house were knights 
to its fair ladies. 

“ My knight ! My knight ! rang through all the 
chambers of her consciousness and brought the blush 
to her fair face and tlie sparkle to her lovely eyes ; but 
when she stood before the handsome stranger, when 
she found herself actually speaking to him, then she 
began to realize that he was no knight of a story of 
the past, and — but the idea was not to be put in 
words ; if it had, it would have been, “ He is to be 
my knight.” 

Arthur Serle had not lived to the age of twenty in 
a city proverbial for its attractive women without hav- 
ing seen many a pretty face ; but, as he looked down 
upon the eyes shyly upturned to meet his, he thought, 
“ I have never seen a lovelier creature ; ” and other 
thoughts followed which held a half-formed purpose 
with regard to this lovely creature. He was glad to 
learn that she was Philip’s sister, for he felt that the 
way would, in consequence of this relationship, be 
made easy to him for a closer friendship, for he felt 
sure of Philip’s companionship. He understood from 
experience the compelling force of his own nature, and 
knew that few had been able to resist the power of 
his personal magnetism. 

Like the effect of a fresh breeze to a heavy atmos- 
phere was the coming of Arthur Serle to the young 


SIB ABTHUB, KNIGHT. 


185 


people of Masson. They involuntarily accorded him 
the first place in their social world, and in the school 
he seemed to take all the honors witliout an effort. 

Born to be king,” they would have said if called to 
explain their opinion of him. 

At “ Sunny Slope,” so lately christened by its 
owner, Mr. Waite, he was often a guest, and his 
ability to adapt his conversation to the necessity of 
the moment made him a favorite with all. ' 

He went the rounds of the seed-houses and the 
barns, and discussed methods so knowingly that the 
proprietor even began to doubt the worth of a long 
experience like his own compared with the quick in- 
sight of this stripling with the face of a Greek god. 

The visitor even found his way into the good-will 
of Esther, who had at first shaken her head, prophet- 
ically declaring that no good could come of his visits. 
“ ’Pears like he’s the picter of Mars’ Everett’s best- 
loved boy, who broke his promises ehcry time^ an’ 
broke ole mars’s heart in de end,” she said. 

But Esther was obliged to own herself conquered 
at last, she knew not how or why ; neither did the 
other captives know. 

He often found his way, this strangely fascinating 
young man, down to the home at the ferry, where he 
was first introduced by Philip to the old homestead 
that bore unmistakable signs of having once been the 


186 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


home of luxury. He listened attentively to Mrs. 
Mayne’s stories of the distinguished comi^any that 
once honored the home with its presence. He caught 
himself often turning to catch a glimpse of the lovely 
face of Annie, who was rapt in her own visions, and 
was seeing her knight in glorious raiment trans- 
formed beyond the recognition of those who saw the 
real picture of life ; and then with Philip he wan- 
dered along the Anataw, and heard his plans for 
bringing back a semblance of dignity and luxury to 
the old home. He could not help giving words of sym- 
pathy and comfort, altliough to himself he whispered, 
“ It is all nonsense, but, poor boy, he might as well 
get comfort from the idea if he can.” Put Annie’s 
face, he was obliged to own, notwithstanding his 
many opportunities for seeing beautiful faces, was a 
revelation to him. He could not resist its influence, 
and he came to the point at last where he did not try 
to resist it. “ Pleasant things were his by riglit,” as 
he understood his relations to life ; and as his father 
had thought best to send him to a dull old town like 
Masson he meant to make the year’s experience as 
endurable as possible ; and when he shook the dust 
of the worn-out place from his feet he would shako 
off the memories of fair faces and of worshipful mo- 
ments which on his own part had no meaning deeper 
than that of pastime. "When this year at Masson 


SIE ARTHUR, KNIGHT. 


187 


was ended lie would be free to choose for himself, 
for he would have arrived at the long-anticipated age 
of twenty-one. Indeed, he had already chosen. He 
intended, it is true, to follow his father’s wish with 
regard to a college course and to acquit himself with 
honor ; hut he had made his own choice of a profes- 
sion ; he had decided to become a lawyer ; the profes- 
sion was a family one ; in each generation for a long 
way back a lawyer had figured prominently. He 
knew his own gifts, as he thought, and often imag- 
ined himself carrying conviction to his listeners 
through an eloquent plea, putting to shame all the 
past Series lawyers. Life’s work was to be entered 
upon in proper time ; meanwhile what could be the 
harm in plucking flowers upon the onward path? 

Mr. Gregory, while flnding his work in Masson pe- 
culiarly trying in many respects, found, as the months 
went by, his interest in his pupils deepening. With 
respect to at least five of them he felt that he had to 
deal with characters that from their peculiar phases 
required the most delicate and conscientious methods 
of leading. This teacher, who had given himself so 
unreservedly to the needs of his profession, and 
who never had craved a sinecure, trembled often 
before the demands which his high conception of 
duty had created, but never in consequence lowered 
his standaixi in the slightest degree. 


1S8 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


Born in a New England village, in a home where 
the atmosphere was rarefied hj the sacrifice and love 
of a mother, joined with the kniglitly manner of a 
wise father, he could not well have grown to be other 
than he was, a man of lofty and pure purpose ; but 
his nature could never have taken on the many-sided 
character that it presented if he had not been in 
early youth forced out from this peculiar home atmos- 
phere into other moral, intellectual, and spiritual al- 
titudes. 

His early formative influences, though visibly af- 
fected by this wider experience with tlie world beyond 
his little home town, did not suffer. Always keeping 
the high standard of those who had so carefully 
trained — not trained, however, but rather influenced 
is the word that is most suitable for a description 
of the wise course of these parents towai-d their son — 
he became a larger-souled man, better fitted to ful- 
fill his peculiar part in life by this experience with the 
world. His mother, like one who for a moment lets 
go the hand of her darling baby that he may try his 
strength without her help, watched with feverish anx- 
iety lest the temptations of a great city whither he 
went should cause him to fall. But this mother was 
spared such a heart-breaking knowledge, for James 
Gregory never disgi-aced his early education by an 
actual fall into sin. But he did not escape temptar 


SIE ARTHUR, KNIGHT 139 

tion. There came to him an awful hour when tlie 
hosts of sin warred against the good in his soul. He 
tasted sin so far that he learned the secret of that 
sympathy that one must have for his mind if he 
would follow in the footsteps of his Christ. From it 
he learned to see — 

“ In every evil a kind instrument 
To chasten, elevate, correct, subdue. 

And fit him for that heavenly estate — 

Saintsbip in Christ, the Manhood Absolute.” 

In after years, when he had gained strength and 
had won honors, seeking his mother’s presence that 
its gentle spell might soothe, while it inspired him to 
higher efforts, he laid his heart open before her lov- 
in«: ffaze. 

He was brought to it in this way : With a moth- 
er’s peculiar pride and fondness she said : “ My dear 
son, how can I be thankful enough that amid the sin 
of a great city you held yourself pure and true to your 
highest thought of right?” 

“ O, mother,” the young man groaned, “ I am not 
what you su23pose ! ” And then burying his face in his 
mother’s lap, as he had so often done when a boy, he 
said : “ Mother, I ask you, would you think of me as 
you do now if you knew that I had come very near 
to falling? if you knew that the shadow of a sin 
had touched my life ? ” 


190 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


There came no answer from that mother's lips, and 
lying there where he conld hear the quick beating of 
her heart he told his story of fierce battle with the 
messengers of sin. 

Then the mother’s love overflowed its bounds ; she 
kissed the manly forehead as she had never kissed 
the child’s brow, and rained her tears, which had be- 
come those of triumph, upon his face as she wins- 
j)ered, My blessed boy, tempted but sinless ; ” and if 
tliere was aught of sacrilege in her thought of her boy, 
was she not forgiven ? 

It was the effect of this conquering experience that 
furnished the manhood of James Gregory with the 
power over the hearts of the young with whom he 
came in contact. He had looked upon sin, he could 
pity the soul thus tempted, he could show it how to 
understand the truth that he, through a passionate ex- 
perience, had himself accepted — 

“ That ill the throug of evils that assail us there are none 
That yield their strength to virtue’s struggling arm 
With such munificent reward of power 
As great temptations.” 

Those who were superficial observers of the young 
man’s life were inclined to smile at his standards 
and to shake their heads knowingly as they remarked, 

When he has had a few rubs with evil he will 


SIE ARTHUR, KNIGHT. 


191 


part with some of his high-flown theories of living.” 
They could not know that it was this very touch of 
evil that had made his soul rebound for its standards. 

His influence began early to be felt in Masson, flrst 
over the school and then in the town generally. Few 
could watch the earnest face without being impressed 
with its expression, and a grasp of his hand somehow 
seemed to hold a helpful meaning. 

He made himself acquainted with the history of the 
homes from which his pupils came, he exerted him- 
self to gain the confidence of each one under his 
charge, and before he had finished his year in the 
academy he had many friends in the town who idol- 
ized him, and some enemies who hated him, simply 
because his personality was a rebuke to their own low 
sins. 

He was often invited to the home of Squire Waite, 
and, being a fine singer, he found great pleasure in an 
evening of music, for Jessie had advanced so rapidly 
in the development of her musical taste that it was a 
real delight to listen to her playing. 

But Jessie’s talent for music was not the one thing, 
as she had discovered, which was to shape her life- 
purpose. She had begun to relieve her surcharged 
soul by another kind of expression, and in the academy 
she had gained the reputation of the school writer.” 

There were two who watched her onward course 


192 


ALONG THE ANATAW, 


with peculiar interest : one, the teacher, whose whole 
soul was thrilled at the knowledge that one under his 
charge gave promise of becoming a power in the 
cause of right ; and Philip, who had learned her se- 
cret from her own lips, and knew that her own per- 
sonal experience had led her to choose the temper- 
ance cause as the rightful channel for the use of her 
talent. They had long talks together, these young 
people, with life’s way before them ; they discussed 
their aims and the possibility of realizing them, and 
each interview made each long for another, and they 
knew not — for love’s victims, like the little god him- 
self, are blind — that the attraction was not the discus- 
sion of their life-work so much as for their separate 
selves. 

Sometimes Edith in watching them closely would 
seem to discover something that made her selfish little 
heart ache, and then she exerted herself anew to hold 
Philip’s attention, and if she succeeded she was as 
light as a bird in her mood, and her delicate face 
shone with her happiness. 

‘‘ Dear sister Edith,” Philip w’hispered in her ear 
at such moments; and the poor little dependent heart 
felt the sharp agony of the suspicion that the word 
“sister” seemed to carry. “'You are lovely, sister 
Edith,” he said again and again, not knowing all that 
his words conveyed to the impressionable girl. 


SIR ARTHUR, KNIGHT, 


193 


When Philip talked with his mother she readily 
discovered the nature of his separate regard for the 
two young people whose attractions were of a very 
opposite nature, and a fear began to grow in her mind 
as to results, as they might have to do with the plans 
of her boy’s benefactor, as witli the peace of his be- 
loved child. But she did not wliisper her suspicion 
or a warning with respect to the affair. She knew 
that her son held in his maturing character the ele- 
ments of the truth and justice that had singularly 
marked and had shaped the course of his Grandfather 
Paley’s life. She felt that she could leave her son 
to his best instincts in an affair of the heart, and she 
did so. 


194 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


CHAPTER XYII. 

JESSIE’S RESOLVE. 

The home at the ferry was again and again hon- 
ored by tlie frequent presence of the handsome high- 
born stranger as by that of the brave, kniglitly- 
souled man ; for Arthur Serle was drawn to it by 
the lovely face that had at first attracted his atten- 
tion, and James Gregory had become interested not 
only in his pupils, Philip and Annie, but in the char- 
acter and tragic history of their mother. His helpful 
nature sprang to relieve where such relief was possi- 
ble, and as he learned the hopes and fears of the 
mother’s soul, as related to the future of her chil- 
dren, he gave his sympathy, which furnished to her 
a mental support, and he promised this anxious 
mother an especial care over her children, that as far 
as in him lay he would direct them aright. 

AVith reference to Philip, this promise, he felt, 
would entail no great difficulty on his own part ; but 
for Annie it must be quite different. Tie saw that 
the young beauty had formed her pictures of life ac- 
cording to her undisciplined nature, and he knew 


JESSIE'S RESOLVE. 


195 


that if slie would do honor to the Paley blood she 
must be educated to regard life from a different 
stand-point. 

Before this responsibility this young man, not in- 
sensible to the influences of beauty and all the charms 
of a fresh young life, stood conscious of a need of 
wisdom higher than his own and of a strength that 
should enable him to distinguish duty from his own 
preferences. He had given his promise, and he 
meant to keep it. But he had no conception of the 
path through which he should be led in trying to 
keep it. It was an easy thing to take the first step 
toward this duty by going often to the home at 
the ferry, where he spent perhaps an hour in conver- 
sation with the family ; but it was not so easy to try 
to be the mentor of the young beauty who seemed to 
have no conception of theories as related to living. 
At home as a counselor, in the school-room with the 
many before him he found himself at a loss before 
the one whose individuality seemed not more embod- 
ied than that of the flowers ; and not being able to 
decide upon a direct mode of influence he never 
assumed the authority of private instructor, but was 
just himself, speaking and acting according to his 
own high purpose, and thus, unconsciously, he was a 
power down in the old home at the ferry. As the 
weeks and the months went by James Gregory be- 


m 


ALONG THE ANATAW, 


came more and more subjected himself to an influ- 
ence which since Adam has one by one tlirough the 
long ages enthralled the men of high purpose as those 
of no purpose ; yet of its power he had no adequate 
conception. 

The professor of music who taught the two at 
Sunny Slope proposed to his pupils a musicale^ at 
which all who had been under his instruction in Mas- 
son should take part. The idea was well received, and 
Squire Waite esj^ecially warmly seconded it; and, 
nodding with pride toward Jessie and Edith, he said 
to the professor, “ I don’t think you will have cause 
to blush for my girls.” 

The teacher bowed at this remark, but was silent. 
The truth was he felt quite sure of one of the “ girls,” 
but not so sure of the other. 

Jessie found in the preparation for this musical 
event a double responsibility, as she had not only her 
owm piece to learn, but was obliged to accomplish 
through her energy and inspiration for Edith what 
she was slow to do for herself. To play her compan- 
ion’s selection again and again, to point out carefully 
its peculiar qualities — in fact, to put herself into the 
help she tried to give Edith — she saw all this to be her 
duty, and she bravely took it up. She knew how 
anxious Mr. Waite was that his daughter should 
acquit herself at the coming public musical exhibi- 


JESSIE^ S BESOLVE. 


197 


tion, and she would have sacrificed much of personal 
comfort and good for herself in order that the ambi- 
tions of the father might be realized. But on this 
occasion she found the task of helpfulness more hope- 
less than ever before.' 

Edith lay listlessly upon the lounge as Jessie played 
through the music. After the latter had been through 
it several times, carefully explaining certain passages, 
she said, 

‘‘]N^ow, Edith, dear, you would better try it.’’ 

Edith took her place at the piano; she played a 
few bars, and then leaving her seat sank again upon 
the lounge, sobbing out, 

“ I cannot do it ! I never shall be able to do any 
thing so well as you do. There is no use ; when I 
think I have done well I see by the faces of papa and 
Philip that I have failed. It has been so dreadful to 
see their look of pity for me ! I cannot bear to be 
pitied ! I’m so sick of hearing, ‘ Poor, weak child ! ’ 
So sick of it ! ” 

Jessie took the bright head to her bosom and whis- 
pered in tones from which she could not keep back 
the pity, 

“ I am so sorry, dear Edith, but another time 
you may be in the spirit. Be brave, darling. Mother 
used to charge me to be brave so often ! ” 

“ But I have never before had any one to tell me 


198 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


to be brave. I never thought that I ought to try to 
accomplish any thing in life until you came,” replied 
Edith, and added, “ I did try to begin again after I 
saw you, and to shake off my weakness, but I found 
it of no use. I cannot learn my music for the rnusi- 
cale. I wish you would break it to papa ; he has set 
his heart upon my being able to do something. I do 
not know how to tell him of my weakness. Poor 
papa ! he will be so disappointed ! It will not grieve 
mamma ; she does not care to have me try to do any 
thing more than I ever have done ; but papa, since he 
‘ turned over a new leaf,’ as he told me, for himself, 
has seemed to expect that I would try to be some- 
thing. Will you tell my poor, poor papa all about it ? 
Tell him ; you can make him understand, I know, that 
his Edith will never be more in this world than she is.” 

Jessie gathered the delicate creature to herself and, 
smoothing the fair hair, whispered, 

‘‘ Dear Edith, I will try to fix it with your father. 
You are not well to-day.” 

Like a loving mother she went on to soothe the 
girl, and at last the sobs ceased and sleep came. 
When the delicate lids were closed over the blue 
eyes Jessie, carefully covering the sleeping form, left 
the room and went to the library door. She found Mr. 
W aite alone. He liad a large book before him and 
was examining an article on “insect life.” 


JESSIE'S RESOLVE. 


199 


He did not notice any thing peculiar in the visitor’s 
manner, and began speaking of his interest in the 
things that had so lately been a sealed book to him, 
and of his hope of a growing interest in them. Then, 
he spoke of the musicale and of his hope for his 
daughter. He became enthusiastic in his manner as 
he tried to express something of the desire that had 
grown so lately to be a part of his life. Jessie’s cheek 
blanched and her eyes moistened, while a voice within 
her said, “Be brave! You must tell him now!” 
And then wdth tones that at first were faltering she 
began : 

“Mr. Waite, I have come to speak of Edith; she 
is not able to prepare herself for the coming musicale. 
I am sure she ought not to exert herself. I believe 
she is too weak. She seems tired out.” 

“ O God ! ” exclaimed the poor father, “ O God, 
is it coming ? ” 

Jessie went close to her guardian ; she laid her 
hand as gently upon the hair with its threads of sil- 
ver as she had upon the golden tresses. She softly 
whispered in the tenderest tones, “ Do not fear any 
thing dreadful; she is very tired ; that seems all! ” 

“ But that is the way it began with the others,” 
persisted the agonized father ; “ they were tired ; that 
seemed all. Poor darling ! It was Death’s messenger 
with the others ; it may be with her ! ” 


200 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


Tliere was a long silence between the two, and then 
the man who had only a short time before aston- 
ished and electrified an audience with his eloquence in 
the cause of the suffering turned a pleading face to 
the girl who waited at his side. 

“I leave it to you, my dear Jessie, to comfort my 
child. I ask you to comfort us both.” 

Jessie bowed, without a word in reply, and Avent 
out. She found Edith still sleeping, and she passed 
on into the dining-room. Black Esther was busy 
with the dinner-table. 

Can I help you ? ” asked Jessie. 

“Yes, honey,” answered Esther; “I doan get on 
to-day ; it’s tlie night I had.” Then lowering her 
voice she whispered hoarsely, “’Twas a sight-seein’ 
night ! De powers ob wision mighty great ! So 
many voices, too, chile ! ” 

She shook her turbaned head, and her eyes glowed 
with her deepening emotion. 

“ Awful wision, chile ! Awful wision ! An’ Mars’ 
Waite, missis, too, ’pear to know nothin’,” she added. 

Then pointing her long finger toward the room 
where Edith lay sleeping she said, in a tragic voice : 

“ De cloud is sure to break on de fo’heads, sure ! 
De Lord on’y knows when, but it is sure to break.” 

Jessie trembled as she listened. She understood 
what Esther ’svould have her know’, that Edith w^as 


JESSIE^ S EESOLVE. 


201 


doomed to follow tlie others soon ; and then, as her 
whole soul stood in awe before what seemed an irre- 
sistible fate, her rebellious will set itself at detiance 
against fate, and declared, She shall not go. I will 
give myself to hold her for her poor father.” 

A suspicion found a place in her mind, and it was 
this: “Something is troubling her; there is some- 
thing that*has changed her, and while acting upon 
her mind it has affected her bodily health.” She 
brought a martyr’s spirit to her task of trying to lead 
her charge out of her mental and bodily weakness. 


202 


ALONG THE ANATAW, 


CHAPTEE XYIIL 

KNIGHT AND LADY. 

It was a bright moonliglit night, and along the 
Anataw nature’s every-day beauty seemed trans- 
foi’ined into something higher. In tliis magical light 
Artliur Serlc walked by the side of Annie Mayne. 
The old times of kniglits and fair ladies — liad they re- 
turned? Were the dreams of the beauty realized in 
this respect ? 

Tliis young knight was handsome as ever knight 
could be ; he was courtly, too, and his spell was en- 
chanting. They walked in silence, the silence that 
can be made so eloquent where love reigns. At last 
Annie spoke : 

‘‘I cannot bear to hear the sound of the 'waters 
rushing pver the dam since that awful night when 
the flood swept away the home of Jessie’s parents. 
Poor Jessie ! I wonder how she can be so brave. 
I always feel so weak and useless in her presence. 
Life seems to mean so much more to her than to 
others. Even her music seems to have a deeper mean- 
ing than that of the other girls. And have you no- 


KNIGUT AND LADY. 


203 


ticed, Arthur, when she reads her essays what a soul 
there is in tliem ? ” 

“ I’ve noticed,” replied the young gentleman ad- 
dressed, “ that she harps on the one subject, temper- 
ance, in a way that shows plainly enough that she has 
the elements of a fanatic in her character. I should 
not be surprised if she turned lecturer or something 
of the sort.” 

“ But do yon wonder that she ‘ harps upon that one 
sul)ject ’ when her home became a wreck because of 
the intemperance of her father ? I have been thinking 
so much of late of what Mr. Gregory has been trying 
to teach us about choosing our life-work. You know 
he believes people are called to it now as the apostles 
W’ere of old. He believes, too, that if we will keep 
our soul’s ear trained to listening to the voice of the 
Highest we shall hear the call to this life-work. It 
has made me tremble to think of it.” 

‘‘ O, yes ! I have heard what Gregory has had to 
say, but I don’t believe I have kept my ‘ soul’s ear ’ 
open to the sound ; in fact, I don’t know that I have 
a soul’s ear. I have known Gregory a long time; 
he used to come to our home in Hew York, and he 
took my father ca|)tive through this talk, or rather 
through his way of expressing his Quixotic ideas. 
Gregory is too high for me ; I’m willing to own it. 
It wouldn’t be possible for me to stay among the stars 


204 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


all tlie time. I might, it is true, have my moments 
of soaring, but I’m so very human that I should be 
drawn down to the earth as an abiding-place. I’ll 
own, however, that there is something magnetic about 
the man ; I cannot account for it, and lie and your 
friend Jessie possess this unaccountable something, in 
hind, if not in degree. It may be in consequence of 
this soul’s ear of wdiich he speaks. Of course, as I 
said before, I don’t attempt to know about it, as I do 
not possess one, and have no knowledge of how they 
are obtained. You are interested, I see plainly, and 
perhaps after a while you will be able to enlighten me 
with regard to these things, though I really don’t 
know that I should have any use for a great deal of 
such knowledge, for I am to live in a world that cares 
little for the things not seen. I can’t say that I am 
not satisfied with this little moon-lit sphere,” he went 
on, in his rich, even tones, and I am prepared to say 
that there cannot be a lovelier spot upon it than this 
by the Anataw ; ” then, as he drew the small hand of 
his companion Avithin his arm, he whispered, “nor a 
lovelier face to be found anywhere.” 

The young girl was silent. She Avas beside her 
knight at last ; his tall, handsome figure was a reality ; 
Avas the knight equal to the knight of her dreams ? 

Arthur Serle, as he left the gate at the ferry -house, 
and took his way across the AnataAV, said to himself : 


KXIGHT AND LADY. 


205 


I have played tlie fool to-niglit ; I am not so level- 
headed as I thought ; but really a fellow ought not to 
be blamed if he does forget himself so far as to color 
his words with love when he has such a sweet face 
upturned to his. Poor little girl! Next time I will 
carry myself with dignity, and undo what I have 
done to-night in raising false hopes, for it wouldn't 
do to hamper one’s self with a thing of this sort before 
one enters upon a life career. Ah, well 1 Ah, well 1 ” 
And the handsome young man whistled an opera air 
as he stepped from the bridge on to the solid ground. 

Up in her room Annie seated herself in the moon- 
light by the window. A voice whispered, “ There 
have been gypsies here,” 

“ And they said, 

‘ A cavalier from court, handsome and tall 
And rich, should come one day to marry you, 

And you should be a lady. Was it not? 

He has arrived, the handsome cavalier.’ ” 

Was Arthur Serle the one of her dreams ? She 
was asking herself this very cpiestion, and as she 
asked it she was wondering whether it would be possi- 
ble to question his identity if the real knight had come. 

Other thoughts and questions followed fast, and 
another image rose in majestic proportions above the 
jDicture of the handsome knight ; and this image did 
not depend so much upon its form for its attraction 
as upon an implied spiritual beauty. Truly James 


206 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


Gregory’s influence over tlie unformed nature was a 
power. 

The handsome knight, again and again, was, through 
the spell of beauty, betrayed into an expression of ad- 
miration for the fair Annie. Philip, watchful for the 
happiness of the sister whom he held in worship, could 
not decide just how the influence of his friend affected 
her. Carried away from calm reasoning upon the 
situation by the fascinations of the young man whose 
personality had seemed to drop from some enchanted 
region upon his own experience, he would not have 
been surprised at any marvelous effect of this fascina- 
tion upon the sister of whose dreams he knew, and 
whose pictures of knights he had helped to paint. 

As he observed his sister’s manner in the presence 
of Arthur Serle he was surprised, for, knowing her 
impressionable nature as he did, he had expected some 
sort of a transformation in her appearance. One thing 
that astonished him much in connection with the affair 
was the expression of her face at times when her 
teacher, James Gregory, talked with their mother upon 
subjects in a way that he believed the light-hearted An- 
nie could not understand. It was quite beyond the abil- 
ity of his pliilosophy to explain it. lie had noticed, too, 
that when she spoke of the teacher her manner was al- 
most reverent, and that she was making an effort to 
become interested in certain literature of a higher class 


KNIGHT AND LADY. 


207 


than that to which she had become accustomed, for 
the reason, as he believed, that Mr. Gregory read such 
books. He came to the conclusion that his pretty, 
careless sister was changing fast, and he wondered 
whether he should like the changed Annie, and suf- 
fered forebodings with regard to a fatal effect if, like 
Undine, she should find a soul. Like many a one 
besides him of the masculine sex, he was not prepared 
to desire this finding of the soul ; he had formed his 
own plans for the protection and crowning of this 
beautiful sister, and was naturally jealous of any thing 
that seemed to interfere with them. 

To Jessie he went for the highest companionship, 
which means sympathy without the necessity of ex- 
planation. He had an intuitive knowledge of her 
inner wants and of her aspirations, and felt that she 
had of his. Then they had a purpose in common, a 
purpose to do some fighting for the advancement of 
the temperance cause. To no person could he speak 
so freely of what lay nearest his heart as to J essie. His 
friend Arthur had no interest in the subject. “ Why 
should he ? ” Philip argued. “ He has never known 
the awful tyranny of rum, has never seen his home 
joys stolen one by one, has never seen precious lives 
sacrificed. He surely can never know what a scourge 
intemperance can become ! ” 


208 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

OFF TO COLLEGE. 

The months of dreaming, of work, of defeat, of 
hope, went on, and the time came at last when Philip 
and Arthur Serle were ready for college. They were 
to begin their college life together. 

At Sunny Slope September finds the out-door 
beauty unspoiled. The grass is as green and the 
pasture as glowing as in midsummer. The climbing 
vines still cling to their old supports, and the cool cor- 
ners and the shady retreats are as attractive as ever. 

Upon the vine-wreathed piazza Jessie and Edith are 
sitting, both watching Mr. Waite and Philip as arm 
ill arm thej^ pass along the walk. The two men are 
talking of improvements and of what will be done 
when the younger returns from college to take up his 
part of the world’s work. They pass at length be- 
yond the walk and are lost to the view of the two girl 
'watchers. The latter sit for a long time in silence. 
At length the footsteps of Mr. Waite and Philip are 
heard returning. 

‘‘ Well, my girls, what are we going to do without 


OFF TO COLLEGE. 


209 


Philip?” asks tlie squire with a slight shaking of 
voice, though he tries hard to make his tones cheer- 
ful. 

Neither of “the girls” answer, and Philip, to re- 
lieve the embarrassment, says, “ O, I think they will 
survive my absence. I do not flatter myself that the 
home-life here will go to pieces when I am gone.” 

The young ladies are still silent, and Mr. Waite pro- 
poses that they go into the parlor and join in a last 
song. No one replies to this request by word, yet 
the three follow the master of the house into the par- 
lor and the song is sung. 

The leave-taking comes next. The young man has 
spoken his adieus to Mr. and Mrs. Waite ; he turns to 
Edith, and, taking her little iiand in his, he says gently, 
“ Try and get strong before I come back ; I want to 
see you w^ell when vacation comes.” He drops the 
hand that has lain so willingly in his ; he takes the 
hand of Jessie ; he looks into the expressive face of 
the one who at that moment, he feels, is the one in all 
the world to him; he cannot utter a word, and his 
heart is full. Their eyes meet for one second — and 
then he is gone. 

Jessie does not move for a minute, and then she 
turns to find that she is alone with Edith, who lies 
upon the lounge, her face the picture of despair. She 

goes to the side of the lounge. She takes Edith’s 
U 


210 


AL ONG THE ANA TA W. 


hand without a word. The latter gives her a long, 
searching look, a look right into the eyes where Pliilip’s 
gaze had last rested, and then she covers her face and 
sobs. What words of comfort can Jessie offer ? She 
has learned the cause of her companion’s grief. She 
finds herself helpless before it. 

At last she found herself alone in her own room, 
and the door barred against intruders. Alone with 
the one Presence, she walked her room from end to 
end like a caged creature ; a great trial had come to 
her, and as the moments passed she found, as others 
liave found, tliat she had been ignorant of wliat was 
in her own heart. “ I love him ! I love him ! ” 
was echoed through all the chambers of her soul. 
And then the awful truth is forced upon her that as 
Edith loves Philip also a sacrifice must be made, and 
that she herself is the one who must make it ; for has 
she not pledged herself to the interests of her guard- 
ian and his helpless idol ? She had believed before 
that she was ready for any sacrifice ; now she finds 
that she had never known the deep meaning of sacri- 
fice. She saw in the hour of agony that time, strength, 
and talent may be laid upon duty’s altar; and yet 
there is no ordeal until love must be surrendered. 

But if she had been questioned as to the nature of 
her love, of its beginning and growth, what could she 
have told ? Could she have brought forth the secret 


OFF TO COLLEGE. 


211 


of her soul to prove that a subtile something had 
begun to he upon the day she went to Philip’s 
home ? Could she have explained how his words 
of sympathy seemed to heal the smarting wounds of 
her orphanage ? And further on, during those months 
when he was preparing for college, when they read 
together and talked of what they read ? Could she 
have proved clearly to a questioner that all this evi- 
denced love on either side? She could not have 
proved to an outsider, perhaps, but she held sufficient 
proof for herself. 

While in her room Jessie was battling for victory 
over her love instincts Mr. and Mrs. Waite in the 
librarj^ were speaking of Philip’s going and of Edith. 

‘‘ Did you notice what Philip said to Edith when 
he took her hand?” asked Mrs. Waite, as her well- 
preserved features beamed with satisfaction. 

Yes,” answered her husband ; ‘‘ Philip will make 
a noble man, and we ought to feel highly honored if 
he offers himself as a husband to our Edith. We 
ought to rejoice, my wife, that our child has safely 
passed the age when the others were taken from us. 
She is nineteen to-day. I have felt like singing for 
joy all the morning. I regard Jessie as having much 
to do with this state of things. I feared a while ago, 
about the time of the musicale, you remember, when 
Edith was so listless and could not take a part in the 


212 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


exercises, that she was going as the others had gone, 
and I dropped a few words to Jessie to that effect, 
and she, noble-hearted girl, seemed to possess herself 
of a new kind of uplifting power. It seemed as if 
she created an atmosphere especially for onr child ; 
she gave up her reading and writing and Iier music, 
and gave herself wholly, as it seemed, to our Edith ; 
and you see what it has done. Wife, we owe her so 
much, so much ! ” 

If Philip should marry our Edith do you think 
he would stay right here?” asked the wife. 

“ Why, of course; that is the beauty of the arrange- 
ment ; and where should he want to go ? ” the squire 
asked, in confident tones. 

‘‘ Well, I don’t know, but it has alwaj^s seemed to 
me that he was ambitious, like his mother’s people, 
and then what is the use of all this college learning if 
he is just to do common things ? ” And the practical 
vroman folded her hands and prepared to meditate 
upon the incongruity of college learning and farming. 
She was not ready to meet her husband’s reply. 

“ Wife, you make the same mistake that they all 
make. I want it understood that a college-learned 
man cannot be above the possibilities of life right 
here on this farm. If I had known when I began 
life here that it was my duty as well as my privilege 
to become a learned man life would have seemed so 


OFF TO COLLEGE. 


213 


imich richer and fuller to us all, I believe. Philip, I 
am determined, shall enjoy what I have missed, and if 
he loves our Edith will lie not become a son to us in 
more than one sense, and help to lift our old age 
above the narrowness that marks most old lives ? ” 
After Philip had entered the highway that led to- 
ward his own home he stopped and turned to look back 
upon Sunny Slope. Kever had it looked so fair to 
him as when he gave it this parting survey. All the 
kindness of its owner to him, all the delightful hours 
spent there, and all that remained there that was pre- 
cious to him still made his lieart swell with love and 
fear and hope. He had not thought the leaving could 
mean so much. He turned at last in the path onward 
toward the ferry-house, and tried not to think of the 
past ; but there came to him a picture of a flying flg- 
ure with the memory of the rush of the waters of the 
Anataw ; then the agony upon an appealing face, 
beautiful even in its agony. Other pictures followed. 
He saw the figure of the same young girl as she sat 
by his side in sight of the Anataw, which so lately 
had carried destruction to her home and hopes. He 
saw her as she went forward toward the new home 
offered her at Sunny Slope. He remembered how 
they had vowed together in their youthful zeal to 
fight against the power that had laid itself as a curse 
upon their separate homes. “ She is doing much,” 


214 


ALOXG THE ANATAW. 


lie whispered. Have I done any thing ? ” He tried 
to imagine his future ; not his alone, but liers linked 
with his own experience. He would begin to work 
for others when, having finished his college course, he 
took lip life by her side. 

Hid a voice whisper, “ You are an audacious young 
man thus to assure yourself of all this when you 
never have received a promise of companionship, nor 
ever even asked for it ? ” If such a voice did attempt 
to overthrow his hopes he faced it with the memory 
of only a half-hour before — the memory of that look 
of love and promise in the beautiful eyes as he met 
their farewell expression. She had given him no 
word of promise; but the look! It meant much 
more than words could possibly convey of faithfulness 
in love. With this assurance his young manhood’s 
consciousness bade distrust be silent ; and, coming 
within sight of his ferry home, he began to think of 
other good-byes that must be spoken. As he entered 
the walk of the home-yard he saw Arthur Serle com- 
ing from the house. His form was erect, his head 
thrown back, and his step was elastic as well as firm. 

“ A king in his own right,*’ the enthusiastic Philip 
murmured. 

“ Well, Phil,” called this ‘‘king,” “I have spoken 
my adieus before you at your home ; now I am to 
give mine after you up at Sunny Slope if the young 


OFF TO COLLEGE. 


215 


ladies up there are not too distracted witli grief to 
give audience to jour liurnhle servant. I saj, Pliil, 
which is it, anjliow, that is photographed upon your 
soul’s retina ? It would be a sliglit favor to me if you 
would disclose at this last moment just your secret. 
You know we ai’e sworn friends, and my sense of 
honor would keep me from infringing ever so lightly 
upon your patent.” 

' Philip flushed deeply. He was astounded at the 
manner as well as the words of this friend who 
prided himself upon his tact and breeding. He felt 
like giving him an angry retort, but he restrained his 
rising indignation and tried to give a light, evasive 
reply. But he felt that he did not hold himself in re- 
serve before his friend’s questioning banter. 

Never mind, old fellow. I’ll And out for myself,” 
said the handsome Arthur, as he cleared the fence in 
one bound. Philip went into the house and met his 
mother coming forward with outstretched arms. 

“ My noble boy ! My Philip ! ” she whispered, 
with the pain of a first parting from her son upon her. 

Philip, my boy,” she whispered, softly, as if the 
name were a delight to her, “ you are like your grand- 
father in appearance. I am sure you will make a grand 
man like him. It is a great chance for you,” she con- 
tinued, a great chance to be educated, but it will 
take you from us so long ! ” 


216 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


Annie entered then, and Philip scanned her feat- 
ures carefully, to discover, if possible, the effect upon 
her of the parting with Arthur Serle. There was, 
indeed, a shadow upon the expression of the pretty 
face of his sister, but there was no sign of great grief. 
He felt almost like chiding the girl for her indiffer- 
ence at parting with the handsome lover ; he had 
imagined something tragic as fitting his sister’s ro- 
mantic ideas. 

After a short silence the mother remarked : 

“ It is all like your boy’s plan, Philip,” and then 
her face darkened as she added, “ all but the great 
sorrows that have visited us.” 

“ But, mother,” Philip whispered, I have heard 
you say so many times that you felt a certain joy in 
knowing that my father and baby Johnny were saved 
for all eternity. I have begun quite lately to accept 
that view, and to take comfort in it too. I must look 
upon it in that way, or give myself over to misery 
when I remember all. Do not think, though, mother, 
that I forgive Doone. I shall settle with him yet. I 
am sure of getting my opportunity sometime, mother 
— sometime,” he repeated, with a passionate utter- 
ance. “ But, mother, with regard to the plan, things 
seem to be arranging themselves without my help. 
You are a lady in your own right, and Annie has 
grown to be beautiful and attractive without my help, 


OFF TO COLLEGE. 


217 


and has a handsome lover gained through her own 
loveliness, with no help of mine, and Scpiire Waite 
sends me to college.” 

“ But you are to pay him, my son.” 

“Yes, every dollar of the money he advances! 
But how can I pay him for his kindness to me for 
so long ? ” 

“ About your plans, brother,” said Annie, “ and 
my dreams of having the grand times of the old 
Paley liouse lived again, I believe my dreams wu'th re-’ 
gard to grand times are changed a little ; ” and Philip 
felt almost startled by his sister’s serious tone. 

“Is the water-sprite about to take to herself the 
soul which has shadowed itself in her eyes of late ? ” 
the brother silently questioned. “ IIow changed 1 ” 
he whispered, involuntarily. 

“Well,” she replied, hesitatingly, while a blush 
mantled her fair face, “ a grand man means more to 
me than the handsome knights that I once pictured.” 
She made no other remark, and Philip could not find 
the courage to question her further ; and the conversa- 
tion turned upon subjects connected with the parting. 

It was all over at last, and the young man took his 
w^ay across the Anataw bridge toward his new career, 
lie had gained the center of the bridge. He stopped, 
and, leaning upon the parapet, his gaze swept the 
scene before him. He could see in the distance Sunny 


218 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


Slope, wliicli lay like a paradise of peace and plenty 
in the rare picture. Quickly his eye turned to a lit- 
tle spot which he discerned near an old tree at the 
further bend of the river. Would the knowledge of 
the tragedy enacted there spoil the Anataw for him 
forever ? He believed it would as he reflected upon 
its relation to the one being over at Sunny Slope 
whose welfare was to him of unspeakable interest. 
But the Anataw was in its most attractive mood as, 
with a voice of musical energy, its waters passing un- 
der the bridge seemed to say, ‘‘ On, on ! We seek a 
wider place, we mingle ourselves with vastness and 
power, and so belong to the great ocean used by the 
world’s mighty ones to carry out their plans, but 
mightier in its force than their strongest purposes.” 

Full of such thoughts, suggested by his contempla- 
tion of the scene before him, Philip stepped from the 
bridge and was soon at the railroad station. He looked 
along the extent of the platform, but saw nothing of 
his friend Arthur, whom he had expected to find at 
the station when he arrived. 

Up and down he paced, with a growing restlessness 
which he could not explain to himself, but which 
really had to do with the bantering words of his 
friend with regard to the young ladies at Sunny Slope. 


PHILIP'S PERPLEXITY. 


219 


CHAPTER XX. 

PHILIP’S PERPLEXITY. 

Arthur Serle, as lie took liis way toward Sunny 
Slope, had not the well-defined purpose that his 
words to Philip would have indicated ; but as lie 
w^alked and thought the inclination to discover, if 
possible, whether Jessie was interested in his friend 
— interested as one would be for a lover — grew within 
him. He had no desire to know the state of Edith’s 
affections with regard to any one. Silly little one,” 
he said to himself, “ she will never be of any use in 
the world without it is to help to discipline others 
through her exactions upon their time and efforts.” 

With such thoughts in his mind he entered the 
yard at Sunny Slope, and his ring was answered by 
Esther, who ushered him into the parlor, where Edith 
sat with the marks of grief upon her face. ‘‘Just as 
I thought,” he said within himself ; “ the baby has been 
crying for the moon. I hope she has not asked her 
friend Jessie to hand it to her.” 

Black Esther went slowly up the stairs and knocked 
at Jessie’s door. The poor girl was in the heat of the 


220 


ALONG THE AN AT AW. 


battle when Esther’s voice, following the knock, 
called, “Miss Jessie, dere’s a fine gentleman come 
for you.” 

Jessie rose mechanically from her knees. She had. 
long been accustomed to start at a first call. Then 
with a stifled groan she fell beside the bed and prayed, 
voicelessly, “ O God, help me to bear it ! Help me 
to be brave. Go with me to the end of this trial. I 
cannot go alone.” 

“I will come, Esther,” she answered, in a voice as 
steady as she could command, and, bathing her face 
and smoothing her disordered locks, she made ready 
to meet her duty. 

“ Hemember to do right and to be brave ” seemed 
no longer to be echoed alone from her mother’s mor- 
tal lips, but the words had the ring of something im- 
mortal ; they seemed as if heralded by a host from 
heaven. She went down to the parlor, her face full 
of an expression which had borrowed its meaning 
from the hour of trial through which she had passed. 

As she entered the room with the stately steps of 
one who feels able to conquer the lower self Arthur 
Serle was struck with awe and admiration for this 
girl who had always been a kind of mystery to him. 
The signs in eye and lip and cheek, as in the peculiar 
bearing, convinced him that the parting witli Philip 
had stirred her passionate nature to its depths. For 


PHILIP'S PERPLEXITY. 


221 


the first time in his life he realized that his own pe- 
culiar power of magnetism liad its limits in influence. 
He felt, too, a sudden pang with reference to his 
friend Philq^’s power over this girl who was so unlike 
others. 

Where were his resolutions to discover, through 
his own fascinating little tricks and delicate sallies of 
wit, the loves of this singular being? How could he 
question the power of Philip over her? He found 
himself foolishly helpless before such an unexpected 
situation. Talking of the going in general terms, 
and speaking of the beauty of the season, he found 
the conversation lagging at length; and, making his 
adieus to the ladies, he went out to find Mr. Waite, to 
give him a parting word. But as he took Jessie’s 
hand, ere he left the room, he stole a glance into the 
beautiful eyes, which, though giving no look of rec- 
ognition to his gaze, piqued his admiration and his 
pride so far that a purpose with regard to the girl was 
born into full strength into his consciousness. 

All the way from Sunny Slope to the depot he 
mused upon the subject. I never was convinced 
until now,” he said, aloud, as he whipped the golden- 
rod with his cane — never would believe that a wom- 
an’s heart could be proof against my influence when 
I chose to exercise my fascinations.” 

Before the reader has time to whisper, “ Conceited 


222 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


jackanapes!” the writer would say that this young 
man, judging from his particular stand-point, was jus- 
tified in his view of his own ability as a power over 
the other sex. hie surely never had known himself 
to fail in this direction whenever he had exerted him- 
self toward the high end of subduing hearts ; but it 
must be explained that heretofore his subjects had 
been of a different sort from Jessie Ward. 

When at last this young man came up to Philip, as 
the latter impatiently waited his approach, he was not 
quite his old self and had not the assured bearing pe- 
culiar to himself. Philip could not help noticing it, 
and it so affected his manner that Arthur did not fail 
to observe the change in his friend. Neither spoke 
of that which was uppermost in the mind, and the 
journey to the college city was passed almost in silence. 

Philip often wondered what the handsome Arthur 
had discovered in that last call at Sunny Slope, and 
he wondered, too, how the young man was situated 
in matters of the heart toward Annie. 

If he should break her heart ! ” he whispered. 

But he never allowed himself to believe such a 
thing possible, for his friend was, after all, noble and 
true, a god to him. He had other things to engage 
his attention ; he meant to make the most of his col- 
lege years and to prepare himself for a successful 
after career. 


PHILIPPS PERPLEXITY, 


223 


His friend Arthur became at once popular among 
his classmates, and it was not long before he was 
noted as the attractive man of the college. His pop- 
ularity was not confined to the students, but he 
speedily found himself a favorite among the towns- 
people, and his handsome face and gentlemanly bear- 
ing, together with the prestige of his name, were 
passports to the homes of the first families, whose 
ladies bowed the heart, if not the knee, before such 
an Apollo. 

Philip watched with jealousy, on account of h.is 
dear Annie, this state of affairs, and at last in one 
of his letters to her he liinted of Arthur’s popularity 
among the ladies ; but when his sister’s answer came 
in reply it was a surprise to him. 

“ I am not surprised, Phil, dear,” she wrote, that 
our handsome friend Arthur has become so popular 
with the ladies ; lie surely 'was born to be worshiped 
by the other sex. I only hope that his admirers 
may not wish to make separate appropriations of his 
charming qualities. Ah, well, that perhaps is a nat- 
ural mistake of young ladies who dream of their com- 
ing knight. The evidence of his knighthood is found 
in the shining armor rather tlian in the qualities that 
lie in the man himself. W ell for them if they learn 
their mistake in time to avert calamity to themselves ! 
‘All’s well that ends well,’ you know.” 


224 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


“ The sprite is in full possession of her soul,” Philip 
whispered as he read his sister’s words. I never 
could have believed the girl would hav^e found it 
possible to resist the power of tliat god’s influence 
so as to hold her judgment apart for its unbiased 
duty. It is a mystery, a great mystery,” he thought ; 
and then he wondered if all women were not, after 
all, mysterious in their mental make-up. 

He, however, felt greatly relieved that his friend’s 
fast numbering conquests would not cause Annie’s 
heart to break, and no longer marked the victories of 
this conqueror of hearts with suspicion or jealousy. 

One thing, however, did cause him a slight uneasi- 
ness. Arthur Serle had much to say of Jessie, whom 
he called “ the princess,” always using a different 
tone and manner whenever he spoke of that young 
lady. He seemed to Philip, also, to be quite anxious 
to discover his thought of her. Another thing : Jes- 
sie’s answers to his letters were disappointing ; not 
that they lacked friendliness, but an unexplainable 
something which his last interview had led him to 
expect was not in them. 

Edith’s answers were, it seemed to him, more than 
sisterly. He felt their yearning quality so strongly 
that he could almost see the delicate face raised to his 
for sympathy and love. His whole nature, when thus 
impressed, rose in disgust, for he craved individuality 


PHILIP'S PERPLEXITY. 


225 


for companionship, not a leech-like helplessness. 
Then the obligations to the young lady’s father, whicli 
had been gathering to a mountain’s height before his 
consciousness, demanded, ‘‘Will you take all and sac- 
rifice nothing ? ” 

The sacrifice, however, did not present itself in any 
well-defined form at this early period, and it was well 
for his peace that it did not. 

More than a year of college-life had passed, and the 
spring vacation was near, when an event occurred 
which had a strong bearing upon the personal experi- 
ence of those whose names have been found in this 
record of Masson. 

Mr. Waite had commissioned Philip to visit the 
metropolis before coming to spend his vacation in 
Masson. His friend Arthur left college three weeks 
before the close of the term, ostensibly in answer to 
a summons from his father from his city home. 
Philip, when he received the order from Mr. Waite, 
sat down to inform Artliur of his expected visit to 
his city and of his hope of meeting him ; but a week 
passed and no answer came from his jovial, hospita- 
ble friend. Believing that Artliur had never received 
his communication, on the first day of his arrival in 
the city he called at his home, but found to his as- 
tonishment that the young man had not been seen 

since the previous vacation. 

15 


226 


ALONG THE ANATA W. 


Philip had not the heart to tell his parents of the 
reasons their son had given for leaving college before 
the close of the term ; and as the father believed that 
he should certainly get an explanation through the 
appearance of his son or by letter before many days 
Philip was glad to leave him to the feeling of secu- 
rity. But in his own mind a suspicion had grown that 
made him desperate in his desire to reach Masson 
and prove to himself the reason or groundlessness of 
his sudden fear. 

He had some time, himself, been watching his 
friend’s w^ords and manner, and the result was he had 
seen his friend’s character in a slightly altered light. 
Hot that his god was dethroned ; he was still a god, 
but not so far removed from man as formerly. 

He had discovered that Arthur Serle spent much 
time and money at fashionable gaming-tables, and 
that from a social glass he had gone on to take a sot- 
tish one. Hot that sottish glasses were habitual in- 
dulgence with him; but these occasional lapses had 
vitiated the young man’s aims. Philip was not slow 
to observe this. 

Why Philip expected to find his friend’s secret of 
absence revealed when he should reach Masson he 
had no clear idea, and nothing could have induced 
him to put this growing thought of his friend in 
words. 


PHILIP'S PERPLEXITY. 


227 


It was night when lie reached his native town, a 
chilly April night, with no moon and no stars. The 
wind sent its dismal echoes far and near, and as he 
came close to the Anataw he heard the unquiet wa- 
ters as many tiij^s he had heard them before a storm, 
when they seemed full of the tempest’s energy. He 
was about to step upon the bridge when some one 
jostled him and a man’s voice, which he recognized as 
Matt Dade’s, offered a word of apology. 

“Why, Mr. Dade,” began Philip, “this is the way 
you welcome me home, is it ? ” 

“ Ah, my boy,” answered the man, “ I’ve a worse 
welcome than that for you !” 

“ Tell me,” said Philip, with a wild fear in his 
words, “ is it mother or Annie ? ” 

“Neither, my boy; they're safe and well,” an- 
swered Matt. 

“ Is it Serle, Arthur Serle ? ” 

“You have hit it now,” said Matt. “ But why did 
you think of Serle ? ” 

“ I do not know ; at least, I cannot tell,” cried Philip. 
“ But where is he ? Take me to him ! ” 

Matt took the young man’s arm and led the way 
into the path beside the Anataw. He did not speak 
for some minutes, and then he said : 

“ The fine young gentleman is up at my shanty. 
No one knows it about here, no one except Deacon 


228 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


Marvin and Mr. Waite — and one other and her.” He 
stopped here, and Philip cried, “ Matt, tell it all ! I 
want to hear the whole ! ” 

Then the man told him how he had first met Ar- 
thur walking beside the Aiiataw one evening with 
Jessie Ward, and how afterward the young man had 
been at Doone’s until late playing cards and drinking 
in a desperate way, and that one night he had him- 
self found the handsome Arthur half-seas over with 
liquor,” and had taken him home, and that he had not 
seemed well, and that very night had began to talk 
strangely. 

Matt had told all before they reached the cabin 
door, and just before he lifted the latch he whispered 
to his companion, ‘‘I have been to consult Deacon 
Marvin in the case, and he and his wife are coming 
soon.” 

“ I’ll not go in,” said Philip. “ I will come when I 
am needed, but not to-night. Do not ask me to go in 
to-night. God help us all, Mr. Dade ! ” he added, in a 
voice that shook with emotion. Then he ran down 
the path that led back to the bridge and Avas alone in 
the darkness with his own forebodings. 

It seemed all clear to him at last. He thought he 
understood Arthur’s allusions to Jessie Ward. He 
liad followed out a long-conceived and well-disguised 
plan for meeting the girl. The drinking and the gam- 


PHILIP'S PERPLEXITY. 


229 


bling were what he might have expected, but O, the 
other acts in the drama ! His own blessed hopes that 
he had never allowed himself fully to recognize 
through all his planning and expecting — what had be- 
come of them ail? And what meant that last ex- 
pression in the beautiful eyes? Was it all mockery? 

lie was so engrossed with these inward questionings 
that he did liot think of the tragedy as related to his 
sister Annie, who might, after all, have a kind of love 
still for her knight ; but as he came in sight of the 
home lamp a fear for his sister took possession of 
him. He resolved, however, upon a decided course 
with regard to her, and with this resolution he made 
another to the effect that he would not divulge his own 
love-secret with regard to Jessie Ward. No one 
should wring that from him ; he would carry it on 
through the years — carry it on through work and 
til rough achievement, if achievement were for him. 
With set lips he entered the sitting-room and was 
clasped in his mother’s arms. 

“ Beautiful as a dream,” he said within himself as 
he held his sister Annie off to contemplate the youth- 
ful picture ; and he said aloud, Little sister, you are a 
treasure.” There was a slight tremor in his tones as 
he spoke the words, for that other picture would pre- 
sent itself ; the beautiful eyes haunted him, and he 
felt for the time like a doomed man. 


230 


A L ONG THE ANA TA W. 


He told Ills motlier and sister that very night of 
what Matt Dade had revealed, and when he raised his 
eyes, at the conclusion of liis story, to meet those of 
his sister he saw a world of pity in them and much of 
regret, hut nothing more. Then in a few quiet words 
she expressed her opinions with respect to the hand- 
some young man, who had come at first like the 
kniglit of her dreams, but had fi\ded to seem the like- 
ness of an ordinary man. “It is all so changed, Phil, 
dear,” she said. “ My thought is no longer for the 
trappings; the man’s mind and heart must be richly 
furnished to satisfy my idea of a knight. There are 
knightly souls ; I know it, Phil. Arthur has not such 
a soul.” She cast down her eyes as she finished, and 
as her brother noticed the delicate fiush that came over 
the fair face he thought, “ Tlie coming in of the soul 
has not spoiled the girl’s beauty, after all ! ” 


A RAY OF HOPE. 


231 


CIIAPTEE XXL 

A RAY OP HOPE. 

In Philip’s account of the story gained from Matt 
Dade he gave no hint of Arthur’s being seen by Matt 
walking with Jessie. lie had laid this, that ho could 
not bear to regard as a fact, away from his other 
thought of the situation, and, knowing t^at Annie’s 
opinion of tlie young man could not be materially af- 
fected by the knowledge, he did not feel obliged to 
reveal aught that would change her feeling of regard 
for the orphan girl. 

He felt that Matt would not himself disclose any 
thing to outsiders that would in any way be disagree- 
able to Jessie or her friends, and he felt much relieved 
to know that Mrs. Marvin had been made acquainted 
with the whole affair as far as Matt understood it ; for 
he believed her to be one of Jessie’s best friends in 
Masson. 

“ Well, Polly,” said Deacon Marvin to his wife when 
he reached home after meeting Matt, Doone has won 
a new laurel.” 

“ What can you mean, deacon ? ” 


232 


ALONG THE AN AT AW. 


Deacon Marvin told liis wife all that he had learned 
with regard to Arthur Serle, and Polly, listening, was 
not greatly surprised until her husband spoke of Jessie 
Ward. 

“ O, deacon, you don’t mean that Jessie Ward really 
cares for the city young man % I had set my heart 
upon something better for her. I had planned it all 
out ! ” And here the excited little woman dropped 
her work and gave herself up to a contemplation of the 
facts that presented themselves in this new tragedy. 

“ 0, Polly, don’t take every thing as settled,” re- 
monstratecf the deacon ; ‘‘ one swallow does not make 
a summer, neither does one love-sign make a marriage. 
That girl, youmay be sure, will not throw herself away. 
She knows sometliing of the horrors of a life joined 
to that of a drunkard, thougli I have thought from the 
first that this handsome fellow w^as in love with her 
instead of with that pretty-faced Annie Mayne.” 

‘‘ W ell, I don’t know,” replied Mrs. Marvin, medi- 
tatively ; “ I’ve seen girls of good firm principle, too, 
who gave their lives into the keeping of young men 
who had no more character than Arthur Serle, and 
who wwe not half so handsome and fascinating. If 
she does marry him, deacon, it will, in my opinion, be 
because she fancies she can make a saint of him.” 

“ But you know now, Polly, that no woman ever 
does make a saint of a man unless all the materials are 


A RAY OF HOPE. 


233 


at hand. She may be a saint herself, but the mold 
somehow does not seem to be of use for a new casting. 
Isn’t it so, Polly ? ” 

The wife made no reply, but a look of fondness and 
pride stole into her face, and what she was thinking 
of his words the husband could not divine ; enough 
for him that he caught the expression of the eyes that 
looked into his. The two then began to consider the 
situation soberly, and when the conference ended Dea- 
con Marvin went out, taking his way toward the lodg- 
ing-place of James Gregory. 

He found the young teacher alone in his study, and 
was cordially welcomed by him. 

“I am glad to see you in my workshop,” he said, 
cheerfully, as he drew a chair to the fire for him. ‘‘ I 
am reading for rest, now the vacation has given me 
liberty. I am skimming a little here and there, ac- 
cording to the mood of the hour. When my mind 
needs recreation I humor my mental make-up in this 
way, and so I save myself from possible harmful e:ffects 
of a sudden release from daily responsibility in my 
vacation. I have thought. Deacon Marvin, very often 
of late that Christian leaders and reformers do not 
comprehend as they should the spirit of the petition, 
‘ Lead us not into temptation.’ I believe the Lord 
should not be expected to help a man who will not 
help himself in this respect. When the devil of pas- 


234 


ALONG TEE AN AT AW. 


sion is cast out of a man something must take its place, 
something that touches the human side of experience, 
something that has physical as well as spiritual energy 
in it — a strong j)urpose for the accomplishment of 
some life-work or for the cultivation of some peculiar 
gift. Now, there is Matt Dade ; I think his service 
for others, and especially his helpfulness during that 
awful sickness of Mr. Mayne, has been the means of 
his salvation. lie was willing to work along the line 
of this salvation with the forces that the Lord supplied. 
He knew his own gift that was developed through the 
tragic experience of a drunkard’s life ; he was wdlling 
to use it for others, and in this way he saved himself 
under God ; and what a power he is for the temper- 
ance cause ! ” 

The young man ceased speaking, and, after a short 
silence between the two, Deacon Marvin told his er- 
rand. James Gregory was shocked at the news which 
Deacon Marvin brought. 

“ I knew that he would be tempted. I knew that 
one like him would never escape temptation, but I 
expected nothing so bad as this,” he said. Then, 
shading his eyes with his hand, a habit of his when in 
trouble or deep thought, he remained motionless for 
a few minutes. 

At last the visitor ventured to sa}^, “Mr. Gregory, 
I know you are acquainted with the young man’s 


A RAY OF HOFF. 


285 


father, and I want to ask you if it would be well 
to inform the father of his son’s illness ; Matt thinks 
that he must have a course of fever, although we 
cannot be sure as to that, for no doctor has seen him 
yet.” 

‘‘ I do not know wdiat to tell you,” answered the 
other. “ I must have time to think of it ; but the first 
thing to be done is to get a jdiysician. He is his 
father’s pride and hope. The Lord help his father to 
bear this shock ! ” 

It was night in the young teacher’s study, and he 
was alone with his memories; and these memories 
carried him back to the hour of his own temptation — 
the trial-hour of his young manhood. How was I 
delivered ? How was I saved to a worthy 23urpose ? 
How can I help this one who is fallen?” These 
questions employed his thoughts until the midnight 
hour, and when he went to his bed slceji came to him 
fitfully and full of j)erplexing situations presented 
through his dreams. 

When the morning came, the sun, as its slanting 
beams forced themselves into his chamber, seemed to 
bear in its light a message of hope and strength for 
his needs. That he was able to recognize this mes- 
sage j)roved that he was willing to accept an offered 
helj) in wdiatever true way it might be j^resented. 
He had resolved upon his course toward Arthur 


236 


ALONG THE ANA TA W. 


Serle. He determined to give of liimself, his best 
and truest self, to win the brilliant young man to a life 
purpose. 

James Gregory bore his own private burden in 
the matter. As he took his way along the Ana- 
taw on that April morning a vision of the fair 
face of Annie Mayne insisted upon presenting itself. 
The long night’s battle v/itli himself had not saved 
him from this sight. He would have loved to dwell 
upon it but for the sake of duty as he saw it. Ho 
quickened his step, hummed a favorite air, lifted his 
eyes to the blue sky above him, and was soon at Matt 
Dade’s door with his self-sacrifice at hand. 

The young man lay upon Matt’s straw bed ; his 
face was toward the wall as the visitor entered. Matt 
whispered to Mr. Gregory: 

‘‘ The doctor says it will not be best for him to see 
any one just now. He thinks, however, that he can 
break the fever, and hopes to have him around again 
soon ; but the worst of it is to me that one who has been 
used to fine things should have to stay in such a hovel, 
for lie can’t be moved without risk to his life just now.” 

And the cup of sacrifice passed by James Gregory. 
He went out of the hovel and took his way toward 
the home at the ferry, for Matt had told him of 
Philip’s return, and he wished to learn if possible 
from his old pupil the beginning of Arthur’s trouble. 


A RAY OF HOPE. 


231 


He felt relieved when, after lie had reached the 
bridge, he saw Philip approaching. Philip saw him at 
the same moment and hastened his steps, meeting his 
old teacher upon the center of the bridge. 

They stood together there and talked of the 
event which had given them mutual pain and fear, 
and at last Philip, led on by some word of his old 
teacher, said, ‘‘ I thought of my sister Annie at first ; 
I feared for her ; ” and then he paused, wondering how 
he could tell his friend what he wished to tell without 
bringing in the name of Jessie Ward. 

“ I know what you would say, Philip,” ventured 
Mr. Gregory, as his face fiushed and his voice trem- 
bled. Then Philip felt that his teacher understood 
the case partly, and had heard from Matt or Deacon 
Marvin the whole story — the meeting with Jessie and 
all — and he went on : 

“I thought my sister Annie loved Arthur; I did 
not believe her heart-proof against his fascinations, 
but 1 was mistaken. My sister, in growing beautiful 
day by day, has gained also an inner strength. I liave 
said to myself, ‘ She is like Undine, a soul is coming 
into her beautiful body.’ At first I fought the idea, 
for strong-souled women are not always attractive ; 
at least that was my mistaken idea, though I must 
own I know one beautiful woman with a strong soul, 
as I believed ; but things are mixed in my mind.” 


238 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


He paused then and looked steadfastly down at the 
Anataw for a minute, and then he raised his head 
and said : 

‘‘ Mr. Gregory, my sister Annie has grown away 
from Arthur Serle, and Arthur Serle is not capable 
of loving a woman loyally. O, sir, there lies one 
cause of pain to me; not on my sister’s account — 
their lives were never meant to be joined; Annie 
knows that, and there is no bitterness in the knowl- 
edge to her.” 

A heavy burden was suddenly lifted from the mind 
of James Gregory ; but there was Philip’s woe. He 
grasped the hand of the young man, and said in a half 
whisper, ‘‘ I know your thought ; you do not need to 
explain ; but let me tell you that I believe that what- 
ever hopes have grown in your soul with regard to 
Jessie Ward I feel sure will be fulfilled. She has a 
loyal nature ; you know that ! ” 

“ O, but do not misunderstand me,” began Philip. 
‘‘ She has never given me a word that promised more 
than friendship — never, Mr. Gregory.” 

‘‘ But there are things that promise more than 
words, sometimes ; and let me tell you here that I 
have seen Miss Ward’s eyes promise you much.” 

Philip shook his head ; he would have been glad to 
accept the philosophy offered so kindly to him, but 
he could not find hope or comfort in it. Mr. Greg- 


A BAY OF HOPE. 


289 


orj wisely began to talk of college experiences, and 
to question the young student with regard to 'his 
studies ; and when at last the conversation drifted 
toward classmates and professors he found Philip 
calmer and more ready to talk freely, and so by de- 
grees he gained the knowledge he desired with refer- 
ence to Arthur Serle, and learned that it was as he 
had supposed — that the attractive young man’s very 
attractions had betrayed him into dissipations. 

The two parted, Philip to take his way up to 
Sunny Slope, and Mr. Gregory to turn thought- 
fully into the path leading back to Masson. The 
latter was strangely excited over the revelations of 
Philip with regard to his sister Annie. lie had made 
up his mind wdien he started out to hold up to Arthur 
Serle the life incentive of a beautiful woman’s love. 
He believed that if the young man could determine 
to be loyal to what he, Mr. Gregory, believed to bo 
his choice he might be helped on to pure and high 
life purposes through the very inspiration of a true 
woman’s devotion. This was the act of sacrifice — 
helping Arthur to see a true purpose and joy through 
a pure passion. This resolution came through a long 
night’s agony, and the cause of this agony was a little 
secret guarded until that agonizing hour, almost fi'om 
his owm recognition. 

If he had allowed himself a thorough recognition 


240 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


of this secret his whole nature would have sung, I 
love her! I love her! And I will win!” How 
this love began he could not have told, for he had 
never allowed himself to analyze those first motives 
that led him to resolve to give his best efforts to the 
work of helping to mold an unformed character after 
a true model. James Gregory gave himself to this 
purpose with an unselfish energy, and as week by 
week he saw this character develop slowly into beauty 
and strength his interest deepened, and his soul began 
to glow with enthusiasm that he was privileged to see 
such marked results for his efforts toward his attract- 
ive pupil. It was not until he had learned of Arthur 
Serle’s seeming disloyalty to the young lady that a 
duty presented itself with respect to this relation of 
Arthur to her, and he learned the real nature of his 
own interest in her. As his heart bounded at the 
thought, “ She is free to be won,” his modest nature 
made him question, “ But would it be possible for me 
to win her? ” 

lie had reached his own door when he remembered 
his purpose to inform Mr. Serle of his son’s sickness. 
This duty over, he wandered off to the hills to be 
alone with his new feelings. He walked on and on, 
unconsciously drinking in the spring glory. He went 
with lifted eyes, as if the heavens alone could interpret 
to him his new condition. If the vision of an exalted 


A BA Y OF HOPE. 


241 


passion could tlius affect liiin how could the realiza- 
tion of such love transfigure the man ! 

The sun had passed the zenitli when he came to a 
brook across which a rustic bridge led to a weatlier- 
stained cottage. He sat down by this bridge, his senses 
recalled to the beauty around him. The brook’s voice 
was gladder, lie thought, than all tlie tones of waters 
he had heard before. A little child was gathering vio- 
lets in the meadow close at hand. lie rose and went 
to it. The little one’s eyes were as blue as the blos- 
soms she was picking ; and her lips were parted with 
a smile as she paused in her work to look at the 
many flowers that lay in her apron. 

She began to count, “ One — two — three — four — five 
— six ; ” then, hearing footsteps behind her, she turned 
in a surprised way and lifted her blue eyes to the in- 
truder’s brown ones. 

“ And what have you in your apron, my little one ? ” 
Mr. Gregory inquired. 

After a pause the child said, in bashful tones, 
Flowers, so many that they can’t be counted.” 

And do you love the violets ? ” the man asked of 
the little girl. 

In an astonished way she answered, ‘^Why, yes, 
sir ! Don’t you love violets ? ” 

“Very much,” he replied. 

She shook her head doubtfully. 

16 


242 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


Mr. Gregory, noticing it, asked, ‘‘You thought I 
did not love the violets, little one ? ” 

She nodded, and tlie stranger asked again, while 
an amused look crept around his shapely mouth, 
“ Why did you think that I did not love violets, my 
girl?” 

“ Because, because,” she replied, hesitatingly, “ I 
did not see you kiss them ! ” 

“ Kiss them ! ” he repeated, and asked, “ Do you 
kiss the violets ? ” 

“ Every one ! Before I pick them I want them to 
know — I want the violets to feel — that I love them, 
sir ! ” 

Here was a child who held a real love for tlie flow- 
ers, who, without reasoning upon its nature, held 
fellowship with them. He had found througli this 
little one a suggestion for his day’s philosophizing. 
He kissed tlie red lips, and then turned his steps back 
over the bridge as he whispered to himself, “ A lit- 
tle child shall lead them ; ” and then he thought of 
all the professed lovers of the beautiful in nature 
who gave only a selfish interest to it. “ Have I 
rightly understood my privilege in the world about 
me ? ” He questioned his own soul thus as he walked 
and felt the influence of the spring glories. It was 
night when he entered his own door. He was tired, 
too tired to read, too tired even to think ; but he was 


A AY OF HOPE. 


243 


a richer man inwardly tlian wdien he went out. He 
glanced at the open volume which he had last read. 
Its last abstruse sentence was in his memory ; he in- 
stinctively compared it with the psychological mean- 
ing of the child’s w^ords. Long he sat wdth senses’ 
fast becoming dulled by the approach of sleep, and 
gave himself up to half-dreams ; and then he put out 
the light and went to his bed like a tired child. 


244 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

MISUNDERSTANDINGS. 

When Philip Mayne left Mr. Gregory lie went 
with a leaden heart np to Sunny Slope. Edith had 
been impatient for his appeiarance all the morning, 
and the pallor which for weeks had marked her face 
was relieved by a bright flush lent by her feverish 
expectations. Jessie noticed her excitement, and 
while a fond pity took possession of her on account of 
the poor girl to whose interests she had made a costly 
pledge of her own best hopes and wishes, a painful 
longing grew in her own soul as it realized the 
strength of the passion it had made earnest efforts to 
subdue. 

Mr. Waite, too, observed the glowing face of his 
loved child, and as he pinched her cheek playfully 
said : 

“ It seems to me, my pet, that there are more roses 
than usual to-day. IIow is it, little one? Philip’s 
coming ma}^ have something to do with it, eh ? ” 

The deepening blush upon Edith’s face was suffi- 
cient evidence to this doting father of the state of 


I 


MISUNDERSTANDINGS. 245 

Ills daughter’s heart toward the one whom of all others 
lie would have chosen for her. 

As he went out to survey the fields wdiere spring 
had begun her transformations, and his cheerful spirit 
was in harmony with all its brightness, he made a 
perfect picture of a home paradise. He imagined 
Edith as the wife of Philip, and the two living to 
prove that high ideal of wedded life and its blessed 
mission to the world that so long ago he had be- 
lieved to be possible — when he chose his own fair 
young bride. His soul thrilled with the vision pre- 
sented that beautiful spring day, with the thought of 
the joy of living his own ideal through his children. 
As he mused Philip came up. He gave him a greet- 
ing fitting his vision, clasping him to himself as a 
motlier might her child ; then he held him off, see- 
ing not only thGprote(/e, but the husband of his child. 
Slowly it was revealed to his senses that the young 
man in his presence was strangely abstracted, and 
had nothing of the manner that might be expected of 
one who hastened to meet his love ; but one who has 
long accustomed himself to take counsel of his hopes 
rather than of his fears clings firmly to his hopeful 
creations long after reason seems to protest against 
such folly. He said, in a very fatherly way, ‘‘Well, 
my boy, yon are expected and waited for by one, how 
anxiously you shall see for yourself.” 


I 


246 AL ONG THE ANA TA W. 

Philip turned upon him. an inquiring look that was 
full of pain, but he made no answer, and silently fol- 
lowed his benefactor into the house. 

Edith trembled violently as she heard the footsteps 
of the two approaching, and rose as the door opened. 
Philip, abstracted as he was, could not help being 
struck with the pretty face, which had grown so 
delicate since he last saw it. He went forward, 
dimly conscious that he passed another as he did so. 
Hot until ho had warmly greeted Edith, as a brother 
might, did he allow himself to turn his eyes in the 
direction of the other person. "When his gaze met that 
of Jessie he was shocked at wdiat he saw in the girPs 
expression ; and of course he interpreted it according 
to his preconceived thought of her relation to Arthur 
Serle. He took her extended hand and tried to utter 
a word in answer to her greeting ; not one sound 
came from his lips. He dropped the cold hand, and, 
seating himself beside Edith, began to speak of col- 
lege happenings. 

Mr. Waite then introduced the affair of Arthur 
Serle, just as he had heard it from Deacon Marvin. 
Philip gave an involuntary glance at Jessie, and 
thought he saw something in her face that confirmed 
his fears. 

As she sat apart from the others Jessie was living- 
over the almost tragic experience of the previous 


MISUNDERSTANDINGS. 


247 


week. Again slie was following tlie patli along the 
Anataw that led past tlie spot where once stood her 
home ; a voice arrested her attention, and she turned 
to see the tall form of Arthur Serle. She seemed 
to hear again the rich tones as he bade her “ good- 
evening ; ” and the words that followed were burned 
into her memory: ‘‘I have come, Miss Ward, to 
speak one sentence to you, to tell you that I love 
you.’’ 

She seemed still to hear the echo of her own cry 
and of tlie after-words tliat explained to the hand- 
some wooer that she could never be his, that she had 
pledged her life already. She heard again his bitter 
remark : 

“ Pledged, you say ! Are you sure that the one 
to wdiom you gave your pledge has not forgotten his 
promise to you, and that the fair Edith will not claim 
his allegiance ? ” 

Then her own words, given through a storm of in- 
\vard indignation, came back: 

- “I have no thought of marriage, Mr. Serle! I am 
pledged to a cause rather than to a person, I shall 
try to follow my mother’s teachings — shall try to live 
bravely, fighting for the right. God knows how long 
the fight may last ! ” 

And then the answer: 

“ For a cause, did you say? A cause? The tern- 


248 


ALONG THE AN ATAW. 


perance cause, I suppose. I can tell you just what 
will be the result of the awful fight, for it will be 
awful when one with your gifts and graces lays by 
her womanliness and takes on the manner of those 
coarse, undowered feniales — undowered with woman’s 
charms, I mean — fighting in the ranks, doing the 
work that is repulsive to you when yon might through 
your peculiar influence over one particular life be- 
come a mighty power for the cause. To speak in 
plain terms, if you can love me you can save me. I 
must lay my heart before you, I must tell you that 
my passion for liquor is only exceeded in power by 
my passion to possess your love. With you I am 
saved 1 Without you I am ruined ! What will you 
do for the cause ? ” 

She felt still the firm grasp of her hand by his 
strong palm as he looked into her eyes for an answer, 
and the secret cry of her own soul, “ O, mother, what 
ought I to do ? Dear, lost mother, dear counselor, is 
this sacrifice for me ? ” 

Then through all the chambers of her conscious- 
ness she recognized still that mother’s loving tones, 
“ Never, never, my dear Jessie ! Such a sacrifice is 
not for you ! ” 

She was, in a vision, watching the angry face of 
Arthur Serle as he said in bitterness, almost with 
the effect of a curse: “After all, you are much like 


MISUNDERSTANDINGS. 


249 


the other women wlio have a mission ; you make a 
fetich of a cause. The men who are to be saved to an 
lionorahle life are men of straw tliat belong to your 
cause as you picture it to your abused mind. Is this 
your tinal answer?” he asked. “Do you give me 
over to the indulgence of my passion for liquor ? Say 
you will take me,” he pleaded again — “ that you will 
save me to a noble life.” 

Her own reply, “ Only God can do that,” seemed 
still inspired by the dear presence of the watchful 
mother’s spirit ; and yet tliere was the shadow of a 
doubt in her own mind — only a shadow — whether she 
sliould not liave given herself over to complete 
sacrifice. It was not strange that this was so wlien 
sacrifice had for so long seemed the key-note of life’s 
purpose. 

But it was all over ; she liad given her final answer 
according to the instructions of her best instincts; 
and as sire listened to the conversation with regard to 
the young man, and heard tlie account coming from 
Matt Dade of his sickness, and tliouglit of the liand- 
some Arthur lying upon a cot in tlie poor little hut, 
she said to herself, “It is not ended yet — the tragedy. 
God help all who have a part in it ! ” She longed 
and yet dreaded to see Annie Mayne. She sat won- 
dering how she could help to save the poor girl from 
the agony which the news of her knight might bring, 


250 


A L ONG THE ANA TA W. 


when the door opened and that young lady entered. 
After greeting in general the little company in the 
parlor, she went up to Jessie and whispered, “Come 
out to the arbor with me.” 

The two passed out arm in arm, and when they 
had reached the arbor, around which the spring was 
laying its carpet, in which it had woven a few early 
blossoms, they paused, and Annie said, “I want to ask 
you one question, Jessie — one question before we sit 
down for a little talk — do you love Artliur Serle?” 

Jessie answered, “No, Annie, I never loved him.” 

“ O, I am so glad,” said the other, as she threw her 
arms around her friend — “ so glad to know you do 
not love him.” 

Jessie trembled as they took their seats, expecting 
to hear the story of Annie’s devotion to her knight. 
But after a few minutes’ silence Annie began : 

“ When Arthur Serle first came to Masson and I 
met him I said to myself, ‘ He has come; my knight 
has come!’ You see I had dreamed so much of fair 
ladies and brave knights, and of the days of Grand- 
father Paley’s time, that common men and women 
had very little interest for mo. Arthur Serle was 
tall and handsome, and had such fine manners, and 
such a gleam in his eyes, that I could not help feeling 
he was the first one worthy the name of kniglit that 
I had seen. Don’t laugh at me for my foolish dreams 


MISUNDERSTANDINGS. 


251 


of knights. Phil is partly to blame for it all, for he 
always told me that he was to make a grand lady of 
me. You see he never told me to make one of my- 
self. The idea of a ‘lady’ was much to me like that 
of a ‘ knight ; ’ it was in the apparel rather than in 
the being. Well, I was flattered, and thought myself 
happy at first with the attentions of Arthur Serle ; 
but after a while I began to realize that he was not 
my knight after all ; that my knight must be grand in 
soul as well as in appearance. Perhaps I should 
never have found out my real feeling if” — here the 
young girl blushed deeply and hesitated, and then, 
gathering courage, finished her sentence — “ if I had 
not learned through Mr. Gregory’s teaching wdiat 
grandeur of soul really means.” 

“Mr. Gregory is a knight indeed, Annie,” said 
Jessie. 

Annie started at the words and looked inquiringly 
at her companion ; then she remarked, “ Jessie, I have 
thought that Mr. Gregory was worthy to be your 
knijrht. You could do such grand work in the 
world.” 

Jessie shook her head. “ No, Annie,” came slowly, 
yet decidedly, “ no ; Mr. Gregory, could it be possible 
for him to think me worthy, could never be nearer to 
me than now — never.” 

“Well, I don’t know, things seem strangely mixed 


252 


ALONG THE ANA TA W. 


ill this world,” pliilosophized Annie. “ Now, there is 
brother Phil ; it looks as if he would one day marry 
Edith, and they do not belong together, I am sure, if 
I am any judge of my brother’s mind. Phil expects 
to do a great work in the world. I have heard him 
talk it over with mother, and I have heard him say so 
many times that a man that sets himself apart to ac- 
complish any thing great must have a wife to inspire 
him. lie has talked with mother about Mr. Waite, 
and he says that he believes that with an inspiring 
wife the good man could have done wonderful things 
in the world. And now Phil himself seems about to 
make the mistake of taking a wife after the same pat- 
tern. I do not mean to say that Edith is not the 
kind of wife that men would choose; she is so very 
pretty, and so attractive at times. But somehow she 
ought not to be my brother Phil’s choice.” 

Jessie sat silent and trembling, and Annie, turning 
to get her friend’s idea of the affair, saw such a look 
in the beautiful eyes that she involuntarily exclaimed, 
“Why, Jessie, of what are you thinking?” and 
added, after a pause, “ I have heard you say that you 
feared Edith had not long to live. But did you see 
how bright and fresh she was this morning? If that 
is troubling you I am sure you need worry no more ; 
you are giving up your life to her so entirely that I 
do not wonder that you are nervous sometimes.” 


MISUNDERSTANDINGS. 


253 


As Annie finished her sentence voices were heard, 
and Philip and Edith entered the arbor. Jessie and 
Annie rose, and the four sauntered off toward the 
green-house, where tlie men were busy removing the 
plants to the lawn parterres. 

Jessie was observant of the fact that Philip tried to 
avoid a conversation with her, and she felt the bitter- 
ness of a soul that, knowing its own innocence in a 
particular matter, must hold its secret, with no hope 
of declaring the truth that would reinstate it in tlie 
regard of one whom it adores. And 3^et, following the 
training of her mother’s precepts, she gained to her- 
self a strength of soul which is of itself in a sense 

The days passed, and Philip’s vacation was draw- 
ing to a close. It was the last day of it, when he 
took his way to Matt Dade’s cabin to inquire with re- 
gard to Arthur Serle. Mr. Gregory’s telegram had 
brought the young man’s parents from the city, who 
were shocked beyond measure at the condition in 
which they found their idolized son. They had left 
the young man in charge of Matt as they went out 
for their dinner, for Matt had proved himself to pos- 
sess a genius for nursing. 

As Philip came near the cottage he heard low, ear- 
nest, pleading tones, and as he reached the door he 
recognized Matt’s voice in prayer. He stopped and 


254 


ALONG TEE AN AT AW. 


bowed Ills head. Each word seemed charged with 
tlie earnestness of tlie suppliant, and so fervent was 
the prayer that Philip bade his own soul bow before 
tlie mighty influence. The reformed inebriate prayed : 

“ O, Lord, mighty to help a righteous cause, help 
this thy stricken one — stricken through the power of 
the rum curse, to be clothed and in his right mind ! 
O, there is no help for him but in thee ! Lord, re- 
store the beauty which sin has spoiled. Lord, make his 
soul beautiful in thy sight. And O, great Conqueror, 
give even through this poor sufferer’s trial a help to 
the temperance cause. May each wave of trouble 
that comes from rum send the temperance cause 
higher up toward final victory, and 'we will give thee 
all the glory forever ! ” 

The prayer ended, Philip entered. Matt colored 
as he took the offered hand and explained that Mr. 
and Mrs. Serle had left him alone for a short time 
with the sick young man. 

‘‘ He will not know you,” Matt said, in reply to 
Philip’s questioning with regard to his friend, but 
he talks of you and — and — of others in his wildness, 
and, O, it is so hard to hear him call upon that girl 
to save him ! ” 

Philip could not ask the name of this young girl. 
His thoughts were very bitter just then, and he gave 
a shudder as he glanced toward the bed. 


MISUNDERSTANDINGS. 


255 


“ I am going away early in tlie morning,’’ he said, 
“ and God knows whether I sliall ever see him again. 
O, I thought him a king among us ! But — now — ” 

Matt asked no questions, but stood silently regarding 
Philip as he noiselessly stepped toward the bed to 
look upon the sleeping features of his old friend. It 
was a great shock, the change that he saw upon the 
once handsome hice. He gazed for a moment, then, 
sinking into a chair, covered his face with his hands 
and gave himself over to quiet grief. 

AYhen he rose at last and went tow^ard the door 
Matt said, in comforting tones : 

“ I believe he will be saved to a better life. 'VYhen 
I think how the woi’ds and prayei-s of people who 
were earnest for the cause helped me out of the pit I 
can believe almost any thing for others. I was the 
chief among sinners.” 

He followed Philip out as he finished speaking, and 
Philip said : 

I heard you pray. Matt, that the temperance cause 
might be sent higher up toward victory through this. 
It gave me a new idea ; you seem to believe that it is 
lielped up through waves of influence.” 

“ Yes,” Matt answered, in an embarrassed way. 

I’ve often thought if I was wise enough to write a 
book I might show just what I feel in this matter 
about these waves, and how each man, woman, and 


256 


ALONG THE AN AT AW. 


child may become a power in helping toward the tide 
that drives the temperance cause up higher each time. 
Good temperance people sometimes get discouraged 
just because they don’t have faith enough in these 
waves. I don’t think I can tell you exactly what I 
mean, but I guess you’ll understand. O, what a 
chance you people with college learning have to help 
send the cause up ! But I shall try as far as I can to 
help on the great cause ; but Pm thinking the Lord 
will own my work.” There was a moan from the 
bed inside the cabin, and, bowing. Matt returned to 
the bedside. 

As Philip walked beside the Anataw he thought 
deeply of Matt’s words. He felt that the man’s 
power was beyond the power of gifts of the mind or 
of the learning of the schools ; he felt humbled be- 
fore his purpose and spirit. “ "Write a book,” he 
whispered. “ I know who could write a book ! O, I 
had hoped that we could work together for the cause — 
that Jessie Ward and I could work out life’s purpose 
together. But that is all over — all over now ! ” 


THE RIGHT WINS. 


257 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE RIGHT WINS. 

It was weeks after Philip’s departure for the sum- 
mer term that he received a letter from Mr. Gregory 
telling him of Arthur Serle’s recovery. “Your 
friend is sadly changed in appearance,” said the let- 
ter ; “ but there are indications of a change begun in 
his soul, under tlie blessed ministrations of Matt Dade, 
that will widen and deepen, I hope, until his charac- 
ter becomes noble and pure and worthy for its true 
influence in the world. He has returned with his 
parents to Hew York, and I tliink will write soon to 
you, for he told me that he had some things to explain 
to yon.” 

But ere this letter of explanation, for which Philip 
so longed, was received another message came, a let- 
ter from Jessie Ward, a letter that roused his whole 
nature. 

“ Philip,” it began, “ Edith is failing, I think. Her 
father, poor man, will not see the signs of decay, and 
her mother is strangely blind to them. Black Esther, 

I think, is the only one besides myself in the house 
17 


258 


ALONG THE AN AT AW. 


who has accepted the belief that the dear girl has not 
long to stay with ns. I have a request to make pf 
you. Will you write to her often? She is living 
upon her thoughts of you ! She is calling me now, 
and I must go.’’ 

Philip lingered lovingly over each word. He would 
have whipped himself into indifference for one who 
he believed was careful for every one but himself ; ho 
would have been indignant if possible, and have found 
relief in liis indignation ; but how was it possible 
when for so many years he had been accustomed to 
associate Jessie with each new purpose and hope and 
fear ? Strange that Philip, in the liglit of his own 
sacritice, could not divine the sacrificial character of 
Jessie’s appeal for Edith ! 

From that hour Philip did not fail to wn-ite his 
semi-weekly letter to Edith. The coming of these 
letters was an event to the girl whose days were num- 
bered. She waited for them with a feverish lonofing:. 
Jessie read them to her again and again. Sometimes 
it seemed as if she could never articulate another 
word. Sometimes, when she read the tender words, 
she questioned, ‘‘Are they only brotherly words, or 
are they those of a lover ? ” 

One day, after she had finished reading and had 
carefully placed the folded sheet in its envelope and 
returned it to Edith, she sat silently wondering how 


TEE RIGHT WINS. 


259 


it would all end, when the sick girl raised herself and 
said : 

“Jessie, I want to have a little talk with yon. 
Something has heefl telling me for days that I have 
not long to live. Papa I cannot tell, and mamma 
would not quite understand ; but I know you will listen 
and will do just what I ask you to do ; you always 
have done what I asked of you.” 

Jessie had a sickening fear of what might come, and 
for one second she felt a strange repulsion from this 
frail creature, wliose ruling passion for help through 
another’s sacrifice was growing stronger as her body 
became weaker ; but the voice whispered in her soul’s 
ear, “ Be brave, my child,” and her. sj^irit bent itself 
to receive the expected burden. 

“ I know that Philip loves me,” began the weak 
voice. “ I have had proof of it. These letters show 
the truth ; and if he loves me as I know he does he 
will have settled in his mind that he will one day 
marry me.” She paused here and lay quite still, a 
smile upon her features, as if she were turning the 
sweet thought in her mind. Then she added, “I 
think papa knows of his desire. I have gathered the 
fact from things I have heard from him. But I was 
going to say,” she added, while the fiush deepened 
upon her face, “ I should like to be the wife of Philip 
before I die. I have had such a longing to know before 


260 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


I die that he will be mine throughout the next life. 
I want him all to myself there ! I must own Mm ! 
I must ” 

Jessie trembled and waited in silence for the com- 
inand to sacrifice. 

“ I want you to write to Philip and tell him that I 
cannot live long. Don’t tell him my wish. When he 
comes he will understand all, I’m sure. I want you 
to write to have him come on Saturday. To-day is 
Monday. Yes, I think Saturday will do.” 

Jessie tried to cheer the invalid with the hope that 
slie might be deceived in her belief that she must 
soon die, but the answer was, I know — I am sure 
now.” 

When at last she had fallen into a light slumber 
Jessie went softly out, and, finding Mr. Waite, told 
him what his darling cliild had said. 

“ O, God ! ” he groaned. “ Tell me, tell me, you who 
have been with her night and day — you should be 
able to judge — must my precious child die ? ” 

Jessie laid her hand gently upon the clasped hands 
of her guardian, and, with streaming eyes and agonized 
tones, answered what was given her to say. 

The poor father bowed his head upon his hands as 
he sobbed out, ‘‘ And she is my last! She is the last 
darling. O, God, spare her to me ! ” 

Jessie left him then and went to her room. She 


THE RIGHT WINS. 


261 


threw herself upon her knees beside her bed and 
prayed, “ Lord, have mercy ! Help me to forget 
my own pain in sacrifice, to forget myself for 
others who must feel the sharp agony of bereave- 
ment.” 

She rose at last, and, going to her desk, wrote her 
message to Philip. She knew that he would obey 
the summons. She felt a new sense of help, a 
certain uplifting of soul after she had thus performed 
her duty. 

That night the wind roared ominously, and the 
trees tossed tlieir arms wildly i^out. It seemed as if 
a thousand spirits of unrest were abroad upon their 
mission. Jessie went at a late liour to her bed, leav- 
ing Edith in the care of her parents. 

Midnight had come, and Jessie had not slept. As 
the clock in the hall struck one her door opened and 
a figure approached her bed. . 

“It’s Esther, honey,” said a voice, in solemn tones. 

I’se had a wision. De po’ lamb’s got to go, sure^ 
honey, sure. De voices tole it, an’ de voices speak 
de troof. Dey always hab, to dis listenin’ servant. Po’ 
Mars’ Waite ! De Lord help him when he hear de 
wheels ob de chari’t ’proachin’ fo’ de po’ little lamb ! 
Missus ken fin’ comfort in de lard-tryin’ an’ de house- 
cleanin’ an’ in de cake-makin’ ; but whaPs de comfort 
fo’ po’ Mars’ Waite?” 


262 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


“O, Esther!” pleaded Jessie, don’t whisper it. 
It may be that she will be spared a little longer to ns 
all. I cannot bear it, Esther, this thought of her 
going soon 1 ” 

“ Chile, chile,” answered the negress, doan’t you 
go to believin’ dat de angel ob death will rub out de 
mark after he stamps it on de brow. Dat’s agin 
law, chile.” 

The negress kneeled and prayed with the fervor of 
lier race, while the storm roared on. Send de reb- 
elation to prepar’ dem all for de cornin’ ob de angel ! ” 
— this was the burden of her petition. 

'When a terrible blast seemed to shake the house 
her voice rose loud and shrill, Lord, Lord ! May be 
de angel comes in de whirlwind I ” At that moment 
there was the sound of hurried footsteps outside. A 
servant had come to call Jessie. Esther exclaimed, De 
angel’s come, sure ! ” and as she rushed out of the 
door she gave a long, low cry that mingled with the 
sound of the wind like a dirge. Jessie followed, and 
entering the sick-room she saw the father in agony 
bending over the form of his child and pleading, ‘‘ O, 
God, give her back to me, give her back 1 ” Going 
nearer, she saw upon the white dress the crimson stain 
that marked the course of the life-blood that had 
made a little pool upon the bed-linen. Mrs. Waite 
was wiping the pale lips. The expression of the death- 


THE RIGHT WINS. 


263 . 


agony Iiad not left tlie features, and tlie siglit was a 
fearful one to Jessie. 

The poor father still called to the Mighty One as 
the moments passed, until Jessie, coming close and 
taking his arm, whispered, ‘‘Dear Father Waite, I 
want you to come away.” 

“Father, father, did you say?” the poor stricken 
one cried as he looked wildly into lier face. “ I am 
father no longer. O, God, how do they all bear it — all 
those wlio lose the last one ? ” 

He moaned and cried in despair, while Esther 
prayed in an ejaculatory manner as she assisted Mrs. 
Waite in her last offices of love. 

Jessie had sent Esther to call the gardener, and had 
given him a message to Deacon Marvin. When, at 
last, tlie good deacon entered, with his wife there was 
a stillness in the room broken only by the moans of 
the bereaved father. 

Hever had Deacon Marvin’s presence seemed so 
majestic as at this hour of trial. He advanced and 
bent over the low-bowed figure of his friend. 

“Dear friend,” he said, “the Lord is merciful. 
The Lord will be your helper.” 

Still the head bent low. The deacon glanced at 
Polly, who stood with calm face and lifted eyes be- 
side him. She did not see the glance ; she was see- 
in 2 what the deacon did not see. In vision she saw the 

O 


264 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


other side. With low, sweet, calm voice she began, 
and her words at first were almost in whispers: 
“ ‘ And they shall see his face ; and his name shall be 
in their foreheads. And there shall be no night there ; 
and they need no candle, neither light of the snn ; for 
the Lord God giveth them light : and they shall reign 
for ever and ever.’ ” And then her tones melted 
into a song : 

“ ‘ I know no life divided, 

0 Lord of life, from thee; 

In thee is life provided 
For all mankind and me : 

I know no death, 0 Jesus, 

Because I live in thee ; 

Thy death it is which frees us 
From death etemaUj. 

‘“I fear no tribulation, 

Since, whatsoe’er it be. 

It makes no separation 

Between my Lord and me. ‘ , 

If thou, my God and Teacher, 

Vouchsafe to be my own, 

Though poor, I shall be richer 
Than monarch on his throne.’ ” 

‘‘ Amen ! ” responded Esther, as the gentle tones 
were hushed. 

Polly’s ministration for consolation held a mighty 
power, speaking new things, or, rather, old tilings in 
a new way, to the mourner. 


THE RIGHT WINS. 


265 


In the gray of the morning, as the deacon rode 
home by his wife’s side, he touched her hand softly as 
lie said : 

‘‘ Polly, from that day when you uttered tlie scath- 
ing words at the sewing-society until your blessed 
words to poor Mr. Waite, you’ve been a power.” 

And Polly answered : 

“ Deacon, it has come to me because I was willing 
to speak the words the Lord gave that day for. the 
temperance cause. It was like cutting off my right 
hand, deacon, but I’m so glad I had the courage to 
6]3eak — so glad ! ” she added, with peace in her eyes. 

Philip came in time to see the form of the darling 
of the house laid to rest. Shocked beyond words at 
the news which was flashed to him, he could not real- 
ize it until he returned after the burial to the room 
where he had so often met her with Jessie and saw 
the low rocker that had been her seat standing empty. 
Mr. Waite seemed to cling to him in a kind of help- 
lessness of soul, and Philip’s grief was deeper on ac- 
count of his benefactor’s sorrow than, perhaps, for his 
own loss. As the two sat together Mr. Waite broke 
the silence by saying : 

“ Philip, you know, I think, that I hoped to see 
you united to my daughter, and that she fondly 
dreamed of being your wife. I think Jessie said that 
she had learned from Edith that notliing had been 


266 


ALONG THE ANATAW. 


really settled as to the day ; yet I know from what 
the dear child told me that you loved with something 
more than a brother’s love.” 

Philip started ; he had met a moment of trial. II is 
tenderness counseled, ‘‘Let it pass; what harm can 
the belief do ? It will surely comfort a lonely man 
who has been more than father to you.” But the 
young man’s sense of truth asserted itself and 
prompted the words, “Mr. Waite, my more than 
father, I loved dear Edith as fondly as a brother 
might.” 

With these words he covered his face with his 
hands that he might not sec the effect of them. He 
heard his benefactor walk tlie floor ; he heard his 
whispered sentences ; then he felt a touch upon his 
shoulder and rose to face his friend. 

“Philip, God bless you for your candor! I feel 
more resigned to her going through the knowledge 
your words have given. This knowledge, had she 
lived to receive it, vrould have broken her heart. We 
have never denied her a wish. We could not have 
commanded the gift of another’s heart. It is well. 
But O, Philip ! I have looked upon you as a son ! I 
am twice bereft, twice bereft 1 ” 

“ But, my more than father, I will be your son in 
the best sense. I will serve you. I will love you. 
Will you not take me. Father Waite? ” 


THE RIGHT WINS. 


267 


The fiice of the squire liglited. He opened his 
arms, he clasped the young man to a heart that beat 
with a fatlier’s love for him ; and in the highest sense 
they became father and son. 

After Philip had returned to college he received 
one day a letter from Arthur Serle, with the explana- 
tion promised. It was a manly epistle, and breathed 
of a new and high purpose, as well as bemoaned the 
weakness of his past life. It told of the strength of 
the passion that had led to the visit to Masson to win, 
if possible, the love of Jessie Ward, and then how de- 
feat in that direction had led to the gambling and 
drinking at Doone’s. ‘‘ Tou, Philip, of all others,’’ 
the letter read, ‘‘ have a right to despise me. I have 
tried to take your rights and have seemed to invade 
your home peace. But let me say, with regard to your 
sister Annie, it did not take me long to find out that 
I was not, and never could be, her ideal of a man or 
of a lover. She has a standard which is embodied in 
the man I honor above most men, and I am not so 
short-sighted that I cannot see that Mr. Gregory is in 
love with your sister. 

‘AVith regard to Miss Ward, she must belong to 
you by every right on earth and heaven. She is a 
grand soul, and is as pure and true as an angel. She 
has her life-work ; you have yours. God grant that 
you may together accomplish the glorious results for 


268 


ALONG TUE ANATAW. 


the temperance cause of which you have dreamed ! I 
cannot tell you of all that apostle Matt Dade did for 
me. Ilis ministrations were worth more to me than 
a thousand arm’s-length appeals. I can never pay my 
debt to him ; but I -have in mind a plan for him 
which I believe will result in great happiness to him, 
for it will enlarge his field of service to the fallen 
ones.” 

Begging for forgiveness and for reinstatement in 
Philip’s favor, the brilliant young Arthur closed his 
letter. 

Philip’s liands shook with liis excitement as he folded 
the letter. He longed to take the next train to Mas- 
son, to learn of his sister Annie if it were really true 
that she loved Mr. Gregory. He wanted to decide 
through his own senses if Mr. Gregory honored his 
sister with his love ; but, more than all, he wanted 
to have an interview with Jessie Ward. He had 
wronged her, in his thought, at least. He would be 
forgiven for it, and then, O, the sweet hope ! It could 
not be put in words. Tliat night he dreamed that he 
was passing down the principal street of the college 
city, and from the show-windows gleamed in letters 
of gold the words, “Jessie Ward’s New Book!” 
“Jessie Ward’s Temperance Book!” And this 
proves that before he slept his thoughts must have 
been upon Jessie Ward and her temperance life-work. 


THE RIGHT WINS. 


269 


At last lie wrote a letter of a very few words to 
Jessie Ward, and received a long letter in answer, 
which so affected him that his fellow-students banter- 
ingly asked, Are you in love, Philip, or are you 
mad?’’ And the happy young man answered, “I 
am in love.” 

The Anataw has been speeding onward for many 
years since that morning, and Philip is still in love 
with Jessie, who has long been his wife, and who, as 
the helpmeet of Dr. Philip Mayne, has not only 
found scope for the exercise of her charity and love, but 
through his inspiring companionship and purpose has 
been able to write not one book, but several, to help on 
the great cause, to the help of which Masson is slowly 
rousing itself. Dr. Mayne is working out his own 
early-formed purpose to do service for the temperance 
cause through the opportunities offered in the prac- 
tice of his profession ; and in his medical advice, and- 
in all his service, he tries to keep in mind that he is a 
sworn friend of temperance. 

His early vow to take vengeance upon Doone for 
tlie wrongs done the ferry home was never forgotten 
by him ; and when at last the poor old man, a wreck 
in mind and body, became a bedridden creature, 
without wife or child or friend to care for him. Dr. 
Mayne was the good Samaritan to bless him with care 


270 


A L ONG THE ANA TA W. 


and counsel. Once toward the end of liis days the 
poor driveler looked np to the face of the kind doctor 
and said, ‘‘You’re the one who said you’d pay me 
for — for — ” 

“ Never mind that — never mind ; I’ve tried to be a 
friend to you, Mr. Doone.” But to himself he said, 
“ ‘Vengeance is mine ; I will repay, saitli the Lord.’ ” 

Deacon Marvin and his Polly are still doing effect- 
ive service for tbe temperance cause, although they 
have passed the threescore-and-ten limit. They have 
accepted Matt Dade’s theory, that each wave of in- 
fluence must send the cause farther on toward the 
victorious heights, and they, with many others, have 
long acted upon the “ steady-pressure ” policy, and 
have found it a winning one.” 

Squire "Waite is enjoying a green old age at Sunny 
Slope, and though wife and children have passed 
on beyond his sight, he sees the growing family of 
Philip and Jessie around him, and finds himself, as 
“ Grandfather AYaite,” loved and honored. And he 
is very liappy to know that his own best ideals will 
become real in the lives of those who may take the 
places occupied once by his own darlings. He has 
learned that high philosophy wdiich if accepted by 
the lowliest of truth-seekers makes him in a sense a 
king, the philosophy which says with faith and in 
patience, “ If I cannot bring about this great reform, 


TUE UIGIIT WINS. 


271 


my brother, under God, perhaps, may.” If those who 
fail in accomplishing an ideal were willing to help a 
brother toward realizing his far-reaching hope how 
would the world of seers and the world of workers 
find harmony for victorious results ! 

Tlie old Mayue house has been rescued from the 
hand of decay, and it is likely to perpetuate the tradi- 
tions of “fair women and brave men,” for tlie chil- 
dren of James Gregory and his wife Annie promise 
beauty and knightly characters. Mrs. Mayne lived 
long enough to see the tide turn toward better results 
for her children, and died rejoicing. 

On the bank of the Anataw a “ Home for Inebri- 
ates ” has been built, through a gift of Arthur Serle, 
an upright man, humble tlirough a sense of his own 
early sins, tender toward sinners. Matt Dade is a 
ministering spirit, a friend and consoler to the tempted 
and the crushed who yet have their moments of hop- 
ing for deliverance. But, witli its many powerful in- 
fiuences in favor of reform, Masson is yet not ready 
to demand unconditional surrender from the foe that 
has waged war against its best interests. 


THE END. 










. 


fi^ 


V . fS . 

• , f^*»^** ■ •*- ' 


'» . • 

> 


’-'•v ■ 


'• » 


s 


i '■'> 


\. 


■ 3 
•*' *» 


.*» I 


I Tj ' • - ■ « . 

W ‘^*'/-; 
i-.v 


i. 




*. .>• 


•« 
< I 


'^. » 
V 

« 

. ^ 




- 'A 


‘C::. 


-i^ ‘ • 


v>* 






C' 


>■ 


‘ X •' 

r . « '» 



• V* !•> -4 

“ ► 


^ A ■ 


« • » 


- 


^1 


» • 
4 


r . 

'*■ :c 




« « 


■ s'- 


k I 


H 


4 


V • 


- ' ‘r . ^ 


> . 


t. 


. 

♦ V 




- ‘ 


i 

»*- 






U ♦ • 




■ J ', 


» r 


':mi 

fy 


; 


.. >' 


4'^ 




4 • ^ 


X ■ 




?.>'r. 


.<• N. s-*" 

r*' Vv 


:>\44 


• ,\ ••,> ,.v 


« • 


.-1-J ^'r-c 




» ' . «M 


4 


f 


•-/V 


> » P . ' ■ 

i - * ' 




\ . 


t •« 


1 A- 


ij’* 




\ ' 


s 


•V < 






•/ 

^ ■> N''^.v. •; 




ju' .» *■ 


*% 


N 

t 


•• / 


.W 


\ 'r 



I 


•« 


>■ • , 1* 


•V ». 


. vr t.* V* 


* » < 

1 


« . k 


A. ' ' 

• * \ 


-'* ; ^ 


•. • 


-■ V 

'S'' ■ 



'•• ■ A 

\ * 

h 

I |Bu • 4 y. I I 


A 


^ 1 1 * 


^ V ’ 


- -*^JV;^ • ■■ 

S ‘"rV 


• ^ 

f 








>• 




^ . 


!.• ' • ‘i 


> * 


1. •. , f-i;. 


.y ‘ 


ff 


.y 


, t 


' t . 


. - ) * - ^ • ' 1 • 


. i' • ' - 


‘ ,•) 


*'■ • -r^,'‘ -'"•«% 

1% -S * , ^ J 


.V 




-<* ■' 


^ ~ ^ w*: 




- 4 






’ I, 

. A- 


• 


■* 


# ♦ 


4 • .* 

« 

« 

y .»" • 


«. »- 

■ '4 


. f 



• 1 




«• 


•! «- 




I - ‘ 

* 


'■ 


’ ‘ « 
’ .A 


- ' . 







/.* ■ 






t ► 






r.' 








'J- / 






. !( • 


-> • 


*. . S 


.V , 


ft ' . 


r 




* V 


s 


■ mkl xttrrMH «iqx .<-'.' 

‘ftSpV^LMPl • •<_» V j 

• : ,sv ■ 5 /- 3 S 3 /: f 


• •♦t / 


th 


■ \ 


f : : ;'%C?.V: 

• * I * * 

.«• - '"■-« 


't 


^ »• 

1 ^. ' 


>«* . 

.i'^ 




J' 1^1 . 

‘ . 'ri >/ 

• •' '1 --K" ■ V W 

' .' • •. •yy : . . H H 

« ' *1 ’ . • J ■ r- , • ’ . ’ 

■* 'V. •<rv-V,t • v rV’ 

✓ ■'* * A *•• 'll! 


' ■ ri'-. 

'Y- 1- 

.‘N» 




\ 










i'. . .-*^<**‘ 


























